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SELECT POEMS, 

8$c. 



BY THE LATE 



JOHN DAWES 1FORGAN, 

ti 

OF BRISTOL, 

Who died on the 25th of July 1809, 
A^ed Nineteen Years, 



TO WHICH ABE ADDED 

SOME PARTICULARS OF HIS LIFE AND CHARACTER* 
BY AN EARLY FRIEND AND ASSOCIATE; 

mitt) a preface, 

BY 

WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ, 



LONDON: 



rRINTED FOR LOISGMAN, HUKST, REES, AND OR.ME, 
FATERNOSTER-RCnj£ 

1810./ 



TIT ^ s^f 



;uucr, Little Qucjn Street, London. 



TO 

EDWARD JENNER, M.D. F.R.S. 
&. 4-c. #c. 



Sir, 

It is with peculiar satisfaction 
that I place under the shelter of your in- 
dulgent patronage, this little Memorial of 
unaffected piety, solid worth, and early 
genius; — that piety, whose moral ten- 
dency and consolatory influence you have 
witnessed with admiration, — that worth, 
which you have so justly appreciated,—^ 
and that genius, which has been fostered 
by your kind encouragement. 

To you, who animated the exertions 
of Worgan's life by } 7 our approbation, 
and who watched over the couch of his 
affliction with the skill and sympathy of 
an affectionate physician, these his lite- 
rary Remains must be particularly in- 
teresting; I could only wish that his 
memorialist were more capable of ren- 
a 2 



IV 

deiing them engaging to others also ; or 
that, being relieved from public scru- 
tiny, he had to present this juvenile 
sketch to those alone, who, like you, 
may forget the inability of the biogra- 
pher, in recollecting the genuine value 
of his friend. 

May you reap the purest satisfaction 
from a review of those blessings. which, 
under Providence, you have communi- 
cated to the world ; — and in the present 
instance, from the consideration, that if 
the sanction of your name assists the 
circulation of this little volume (as I am 
persuaded it must), in so honouring de- 
parted merit, and alleviating parental 
sorrow, you may be the means of recom- 
mending, by the force of example, re- 
medies of considerable efficacy against 
the moral and spiritual diseases of man- 
kind. • 

I have the honour to remain, 
Sir, 
Your obliged and devoted servant, 
THE EDITOR. 



PREFACE. 



The very amiable youth, whose early- 
compositions appear in the present vo- 
lume, became known to me by letters a 
few years ago. I had observed with 
pleasure the modest, ingenuous spirit 
with which he endeavoured to surmount 
all impediments that might preclude him 
from literary distinction, for which he 
panted with the natural ardour of a 
youthful poet. I had admired the grate- 
ful docility with which he acquiesced in 
the advice of friends who, when he was 
preparing a juvenile volume for the press, 
had cautioned him against the dangers 
of too early publication : I had ap- 
plauded the spirit and the propriety with 
which he appeared as the public eulogist 
of his beneficent patron, Doctor Jenner ; 

A 3 



and I entertained a lively hope that my 
young friend was on the point of begin- 
ning a highly promising career, as a 
student in the University, when the fol- 
lowing letter unexpectedly announced to 
me the overthrow of all his earthly ex- 
pectations, and led me to contemplate 
the dying youth with mingled emotions 
of sorrow and admiration, and (to speak 
of him in a phrase of Dry den's) as a 
probationer of Heaven : 



TO WILLIAM IIAYLEY, ESQ. 

u - my deaii sik, Bristol, June 23, 18G9. 

u With much weakness and incapacity 
I once more engage in the ever agreeable employ- 
ment of writing to you, to return my very grate- 
ful though long delayed acknowledgments for 
your kind packet and affectionate letter of the 7th 
of March. A few days after their arrival, it 
pleased the Divine Providence, in its infinite 
wisdom, that I should be attacked with a violent 
spitting of blood, with its concomitant com- 
plaints. For the ten weeks that I remained under 



VII 

Dr. Jcnner's roof, his attention and kindness were 
unremitting ; but finding all in vain towards my 
recovery, lie recommended my return home, 
where I at present ami residing with my mother, 
a candidate for the eternal world, and humbly 
awaiting the time when this mortal body shall no 
longer be the frail imperfect residence of the 
immortal spirit. 

" I must candidly confess that the messenger of 
death was a fearful and unwelcome visitant. The 
anxieties which had harassed my mind for a con- 
siderable time were removed by the exertions 
of my friends a few days previously to tiny sei- 
zure. I was about to enter the University, with 
the hope of an honourable and successful course. 
The pleasures of reciprocal affection (of which 
you speak in your last letter) were mine m their 
fullest extent ; and I had raised a goodly fabric of 
renown, in fancy, in contemplating which I had 
often amused my melancholy, but whicli, unless 
it be completed by some friendly hand, must fall 
to the ground, and oblivion must prey upon my 
name. Bright were my prospects ; but they were 
the prospects of earth, and rapidly overcast with 
clouds. Heaven has taught me to lift my hopes 
and desires and views to an eternal land, where 
what I am to leave in this perishable spot shall 
be infinitely counterbalanced and overpaid. The 
A 4 



Till 

prospects now before me shall never be clouded* 
The consciousness of innate depravity indeed I 
cannot but feel ; yet I feel also, and I believe and 
know, that in the salvation which was wrought out 
through the death of the Redeemer of mankind, 
an atonement was effected to expiate the trans- 
gressions of the world. In this divine atonement I 
have sought for pardon and holiness, and new life 
and light ; and I have cause to foster an humble 
hope that I have not sought in vain. Thus then 
as a pardoned sinner, even on the couch of sick- 
ness, I can exult with celestial hope. 

i( Oh! how does the world sink in estimation when 
compared with the idea of those good things which 
God has prepared for those who love him 1 I bid 
it and all its endearments farewell without a siglv 
when I contemplate the blessed mansions of Im- 
mortality, in which, through the boundless com- 
passion of my God, and the propitiatory merits 
of my Redeemer, I have a good hope, through- 
grace, that this fluttering spirit of mine will 
shortly have its abode. It is a dread thing, and 
the frequent source of a gloomy awe to my mind, 
to appear in the presence of the living, God. But 
this is my consolation, that the Ruler of the skies 
is He who was crucified on earth, whom therefore 
we may approach not only as our God, but as 
our Saviour ; and knowing that our sin* have beea. 



IX 

cancelled in his piacular blood, we may not only 
banish dread, but cherish unutterable joy. O 
death ! where is thy sting ? — O grave ! where an; 
thy victories ? I know in whom I have believed. 
I know that my Redeemer liveth." 

" June 30. 
N I have written the above, my dear Sir, at 
various intervals, as my strength allowed. I have 
described the sentiments of an overflowing heart, 
as they arose on the conviction that this maybe 
the last letter which it will be in my power to 
address to you. The pleasure of hearing from 
\ou has always been truly great; yet at the present 
period, it would be doubly great. With the hope 
then of being honoured and gratified with a letter 
from you, when your engagements will allow, I 
am your truly obliged faithful servant, 

" J. D. WoRGAN." 

I have here inserted the letter to 
which I alluded, because my- own feel- 
ings induce me to believe, that in lead- 
ing the reader to take a tender interest 
in his posthumous writings, it may 
have a beneficial influence on many 
young minds ; and prove a powerful in- 



ccntive to diligence and piety ; and be- 
cause my immediate reply gave rise to 
this publication. As I knew it was the 
wish of this engaging youth that his 
surviving; friends should not suffer those 
of his poetical effusions to die with him 
which they might deem worthy of public 
favour, I offered to receive any papers 
that he might be anxious to confide to 
my care. He expired without having 
strength to write to me again ; but his 
papers have been sent to me, and I have 
made such a selection as I am inclined 
to think his pure spirit might approve: 
happy if my just attention to his wishes 
may soothe that anguish of heart which 
the loss of so excellent a son could not 
fail to excite in a very sensible and af- 
fectionate-mother. Intending to intro- 
duce his compositions to the public by a 
brief account of their interesting author, 
I entreated one of his young associates 
to favour me with the particulars of his 
life, as he was personally unknown to 
me. His friend supplied me with what 



he modestly wished me to consider as 
merely heads for a more extensive bio- 
graphical composition, which he and the 
relations of the deceased expected me to 
prefix to the verses of our lamented 
young poet. But the narrative has so 
much of truth and nature — it is so just 
and so pleasing a delineation of that ex- 
emplary youth whose character was im- 
pressed by long intimacy on the heart 
and mind of his surviving fellow-student, 
that I should think myself guilty of in- 
juring the deceased, if I any ways de- 
prived him of so becoming a tribute to 
his memory. I therefore confine myself 
to this Preface, by which I am ambitious 
of introducing the young poet and his 
young biographer to the kind notice of 
the public. It seems to me to be a duty 
incumbent on the veterans of literature 
to encourage the activity and promote 
the reputation of studious and laudable 
youth; and that I may not appear, by an 
act of justice to the living, to shrink from 



expressing* my sentiments of the dead, I 
beg* leave to terminate this introduction 
by the following 

ELEGY. 

Youth of ingenuous mind, and sacred song ? 

Be selfish grief's temerity forgiven, 
That wish'd thy days of trouble to prolong, 

And, as untimely, mourn'd thy flight to Heaven! 

Friendship and Love, in visions of the heart, 
Had seen thy genius burst through every bar ; 

They deem'd thee destin'd by poetic art 
To rise in learning's sphere, a lucid star. 

Sweet was the promise of thy early lyre, 
Sweet as the skylark soaring from his sod ; 

Thine w 7 ere the gifts, that purest verse inspire, 
An eye for Nature, and a soul for <5od I 

But like a blight, that mars both flower and stem, 
Fortune the germs of genius may oppress ; 

And mutual love, of Earth the rarest gem ? 
May only prove a signet of distress. 



xm 

Hapless affection, and the mournful muse, 

Fed and absorbed thy mental powers by stealth ; 
While care's dark flood, like night's most noxious 
dews, 
Drown'd thy sweet hopes, and undermined thy 
health. 



But oh ! when life, to thy enlighten* d eyes, 
Seem'd but the closing of a troubled dream, 

How didst thou welcome radiance from the skies! 
Thy spirit bask'd in faith's effulgent beam. 

Dear young aspirant in that glorious strife, 
Where Nature triumphs o'er her prime desire, 

While earthly changes to celestial life, 
And zensual passion to seraphic fire ; 

The kind ambition of thy Christian heart 
Was from the vanities of earth to wean 

Thy soul, and hers, thy being's dearest part ! 
Train'd by thy truth for love's immortal scene. 

That scene is thine, for which thy spirit burn'd ; 

There angels welcome thee to realms above ;« — 
Here may they watch o'er her, who fondly learn'd 

The path to Heav'n ; and learn'd it from thy love, 



XIV 

Pardon, dear youth ! enfranchis'd now from earth ! 

If in the clouds that o'er this valley reign 
Too hastily, in feeling thy lost worth, 

I touch the source of thy terrestrial pain ! 

Yes ! thou wilt kindly look on all below, 

Who once were happy in thy warm regard : — 

Bid them no longer fruitless tears bestow 
Upon the tombstone of their youthful bard ! 

Fancy yet sees thee smile, with fond applause, 
While Friendship's hand thy chequer'd Jife 
portrays, 

And honour still from*thee thy patron draws; 
Thy spirit still is pleas'd by Jenner's praise. 

Thine was the wish through many a studious hour 
To raise, by moral verse, a deathless name; 

Exult, now gifted with angelic power ! 
In joy, beyond the joys of letter'd fame ! 

Now, widely witness, that thy youthful lays 
To just devotion waken heedless youth ! 

And lead such hearts as thine, with grateful praise, 
To join thy homage to the throne of Truth. 

WILLIAM HAYLEY, 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Particulars of the Life of John Dawes Worgan 1 

Letters, &c. selected from his Papers 65 

POEMS. 

Rhapsody, partly in Imitation of Tibullus 131 

Retirement, an Ode 136 

To Peace 140 

Recollections of a Summer's Day 14/ 

A Poetical Epistle to R. C. Dallas, Esq. oc- 
casioned by the Perusal of his " Kirks tall 

Alley" a Poem 16? 

Britannia, or the Politics of a Recluse 1/6 

Hymn from the Hebrew 182 

Epistola ad Johannem Pting, Chirurgum 184 

An Elegy, written in the Year 1807 1Q2 

Address to the Royal Jennerian Society 203 

Series of Sonnets 215 

A Fragment 258 

Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of a young Lady 260 

Six Essays on Vaccination ^ 272 

Lines to the Memory of John Dawes Worgan 311 

2 



SOME PARTICULARS 



LIFE 



JOHN DAWES WORGAN, 



With the solicitude for posthumous reputation 
natural to aspiring genius, the interesting subject 
of the following pages devoted some of the few 
intervals of ease, which the languor and debility 
of his closing days afforded, to the preparation of a 
brief Memoir of his life. In this undertaking, how- 
ever, he was not able to make much progress; 
what he wrote is now presented to the reader, 
with little alteration, as affording the best view of 
his early years. 

Among all the fountains of melancholy plea- 
sure, there is none so sweet and so unfailing as that 
which flows from remembrance, The recollec- 

B 



tion of particular scenes, indeed, may be the source 
of pleasure, unmixed with any other sentiment; but 
he who shall sit down to review a diversified life, 
to retrace his progress through its paths, and to 
consider its events in their connexion with each 
other, will feel his heart expand with the most 
tender and sublime sensations. 

To him, who (in addition to this) shall consider 
what he is, and what he will be, the contemplation 
of life can hardly fail to be productive of emotions 
which human language would labour in vain to 
describe. 

It is with sensations of this kind, which every 
heart of sensibility will understand, though they 
cannot be expressed by words, that I now attempt 
to recall the circumstances which have occurred iu 
the days of my own existence. They are indeed 
of an unimportant nature ; they can boast no in- 
teresting occurrences, and perhaps they can yield 
but little usefulness. Yet there are those, to 
whom I am dear, who will feel an interest in every 
thing connected with my fate, and whose affection, 
I feel assured, will not expire, when the time shall 
Come for my mortal part to return to its native 
dust. They will accept this hasty Memoir as n<* 
displeasing relic. To them therefore (especially 
to my beloved and affectionate parent) I wish that 
its pages may be dedicated.— And if in my en- 



3 

deavour to delineate the scenes of childhood and 
growing youth, I may animate the broken intervals 
of time, when the return of a little strength allows 
me to act and to think, — if my fancy may be en- 
tertained, my spirits revived, — if my thankfulness 
to the gracious Author and Preserver of my life be 
quickened, by a review of the benefits I have ex- 
perienced from his hand, and if my humility be 
deepened by beholding the continual errors into 
which I have fallen — then shall I indeed rejoice in 
the welcome consciousness that I have not written 
in vain. 

- I was born in the city of Bristol, on the eighth 
of November 1791- — My ancestors on my father's 
side had been watch-makers for two generations ; 
my father therefore (according to some law un- 
known to reason, but well known in trade) was 
compelled to prosecute the family employment by 
a kind of hereditary entail. He was accordingly 
under the necessity of laying aside the object which 
he had ardently sought, that of attaining holy 
orders in the church of England, and was obliged 
to devote himself to an occupation which ill ac- 
corded with his inclinations and his health. By 
this affliction and disappointment, however, the 
humility and fervour of his piety were undoubtedly 
enlivened in no light degree, and he continued, 
though in a private station, a faithful member of 
b 2 



the Church of England. Such he was at the time 
of his marriage in January 1790. My mother was 
a member of the Church of the United Brethren. 
The statement of these things is necessary, that 
future circumstances and expressions may be un- 
derstood- 

In the parish-church of St. Mary-Ie-Port, Bris- 
tol, I was dedicated at the baptismal font by 
the Rev. T. T. Biddulph. I should not detail a 
circumstance which must appear so trifling, but it 
is one which / regard with peculiar pleasure. The 
eminent servant of God, by whose ministry I was 
introduced into the Christian church (when a pas-» 
sive infant unconscious of the benefit), has con- 
tinued an unceasing manifestation of kindness, in 
all the seasons and circumstances of my life. He 
has been uniformly prompt to act the part of a 
real friend; to promote my interest, both in a 
temporal and spiritual manner ; to animate me in 
my studies, by such encouragements and such a 
portion of praise as he considered me capable of 
bearing ; and (what I esteem the most important 
of all) to show me my faults, with the most faith- 
ful and unreserved sincerity, united at the same 
time with the most tender and affectionate kind- 
ness. A series of friendly services of this descrip- 
tion I contemplate with singular satisfaction. 
Knowing as I do by experience, what are the 



friendships of the world at large, knowing that they 
are alliances of convenience, and that with in- 
terested motives they originate and expire, I have 
learned how to value the few solitary beings, by 
whom the nature of friendship is still understood 
and its virtues still practised. And having such a 
character presented to my view, in speaking of my 
baptism, I must not neglect the opportunity of 
expressing my gratitude towards the person who 
has so eminently deserved it. 

At the expiration of my fourth year I am in- 
formed that I was capable of reading a chapter in 
the Testament; and the warm commendations, 
which were lavished upon me by my friends on this 
occasion, so stimulated me to fresh exertions, that in 
a little time I committed to memory a considerable 
number of stanzas, from the Hymn-book of the 
United Brethren. From these spontaneous studies, 
to which I was simply led by infantile vanity, and 
the desire of doing more than any in my school had 
ever done, very great advantages resulted. It was 
hence perhaps that I acquired the benefits of me- 
mory, which I have found so invaluable a blessing 
in my subsequent life. I may hence have derived 
that partiality to metrical composition which has 
been the greatest of my earthly consolations. And 
it is certain that I hence imbibed that principle of 
somewhat like ambition, which has led me to de- 
B 3 



sire a pre-eminent degree of excellence in every 
pursuit in which it has been my destiny to engage; 
and which has induced me, for the sake of honour, 
to support a series of labours, from which my incli- 
nations recoiled, in the acquisition of ancient and 
modern learning. But why dilate on these mat- 
ters * Because they show the fallacy of a plausible 
modern argument on education, which I have often 
heard from sensible persons. Many suppose that 
children, till arrived at their tenth or twelfth year, are 
incapable of being impressed with permanent ideas; 
that they may be taught to read, to manage a pen, 
and a little arithmetic ; but that the attempt to in- 
fuse a further portion of knowledge would be like 
the task of the daughters of Danaus, and would 
rather injure than benefit the mind. This notion 
might be answered by observations on the structure 
of the human mind. It is needless how 7 ever for 
me to enter into abstract reasonings on the subject, 
since an example is here afforded, of one, in whom 
the memory was formed, and into whom a taste 
for poetry was instilled, and a wish for eminence 
inspired, through the benefits of instruction, before 
his sixth year was accomplished. 

The grand object of my parents in my educa- 
tioBj was to teach me " how to live, and how to 
€&e. ?J With the most affectionate ardour, therefore, 
tfeey embraced every opportunity of instructing me 



in the principles of religion, explaining, with sweet 
simplicity, the doctrines of the Christian faith and 
practice. I listened with delight, yet I must sin- 
cerely confess, that the impressions produced upon 
my mind were of a short-lived nature. While the 
rich streams of divine instruction were flowing from 
the lips of a father, my heart must have been cal- 
lous indeed, had it remained inattentive or unim- 
pressed. But in the succession of amusing scenes 
the precepts were forgotten, and the gay levities of 
boyhood asserted and maintained their empire. 
Will it hence be inferred that the instructions on 
sacred things which I received in my tender years, 
were futile and unproductive ? Any such inference 
would be wrong ; for in after-years, when separated 
from my parents, when unblest with any monitor 
who would act his part with faithfulness towards 
me, the admonitions which I had received at home 
not unfrequently thronged into my mind, and ope- 
rated with greater force than recent exhortations 
have done ; since I attached to them an idea of 
sanctity, and thought on them with reverential awe, 
Although the immediate object of my early reli- 
gious instruction was not answered, yet its ultimate 
effects were as completely successful as my father's 
fondest wishes could have desired. An instance of 
this nature may be the source of consolation to 
parents, who, as they hitherto perceive no in- 
* 4 



s 

crease from the sacred seed they have sown in 
the minds of their children, are too hasty in con* 
eluding that it must have utterly perished. 

I have now to perform a journey of thirty miles — 
formidable thought for a boy not six years old ! I 
must bid adieu to my " dulce domum" and all its 
endearments, and to all my accustomed com- 
panions. 

In short, I must transplant myself from Bristol 
to a little town in Wiltshire, at a school in which 
I was entered in the autumn of 1796- The 
number of boarders was limited to six. The 
master was a good-natured, intelligent man; so that 
I settled in my new habitation with a fair prospect 
of pleasure and improvement. It happened, how- 
ever, that the good-nature of our master was the 
result of indolence and inactivity. In passing over 
an error in the conduct of his pupils, his lenity 
might easily be justifiable ; but he passed over 
omissions in their learning, and faults in their tasks. 
This inclination to wink at our proceedings it may 
be supposed that we shortly perceived, and the con- 
sequence may be imagined. I do not mention these 
things with a view to censure my old master (of 
whom I have not much more reason to complain 
than of myself) ; but I wish that parents, in choosing 
an instructor for their children, would particularly 
inquire concerning him, whether he be a conscien*? 



tious character, whether from motives of duty ha 
-will strictly and faithfully fulfil his office. Such a 
commendation is preferable on these occasions to 
the most brilliant talents. 

In the neighbourhood of this school is a venerable 
majestic abbey, which has stood the storms of 
ages, and is now beautiful in decay. To explore 
its accessible parts was long my wish and resolve ; 
but my school-fellows, who were all my seniors, 
contrived to fabricate so many tales of horror, of 
ghosts who dwelt in the abbey, and of murders per- 
petrated in it, that I never had courage to approach 
any part but that which is dedicated to playing 
balls. And as to the dread of ghosts, it did not 
forsake me during many subsequent years, and was 
a continual oppression on my spirits. What caution 
is too great to be used to prevent the sportiveness 
of youth, or the superstition and ignorance of age, 
from filling the infantile mind with tales, «nd 
forms, and figures, which will harass it, till it is 
arrived at a state of mature reason ! 

Opposite to our house, there was a chapel of the 
United Brethren. It was there we attended divine 
.service ; the simplicity of the manner in which the 
brethren expound the Christian faith, renders their 
religious meetings particularly useful and appro- 
priate to childhood. Having passed two years in this 
school, I returned home for a permanency. Even 



10 

then I had sufficient sagacity to perceive, that during 
my absence from home I had lost much and gained 
little. My ambition, the best principle that can be 
cherished in some boys to encourage them in their 
learning, was altogether lost. 
. As my constitution began to afford indications 
of tenderness and weakness, it was the wish of my 
parents that I should receive instruction at some 
school in Bristol or its neighbourhood, where my 
health might be fostered by their care,, and their feel- 
ings satisfied respecting me. Eut their wishes were 
frustrated by the perversity which began at this time, 
in an especial manner, to exercise its influence on my 
mind. At three schools I was entered, but woulc| 
remain in none, conceiving against each some ve- 
hement cause of complaint, and acting in pursuance 
©f my ideas with unruly and uncontrollable prin- 
ciples of anger and pride. These are the principles 
which reign, alas ! so predominantly in the human 
soul, showing themselves at the earliest period after 
any ray of reason has dawned. They evince the 
depth and the extent of our original corruption, the 
proneness of the soul to evil from the very horns of 
infancy, and its wide alienation from God. 

How abased is the condition of mankind, whose 
earliest ways are ways of error ! How unfar 
ihomable is the compassion of our God, who mani-* 
iWsfcs undiimnished beneficence to luch a race of 



II 

transgressors ! As to myself, when I think on the 
marks of depravity which my state of childhood 
manifested in the unmanageable character of my 
temper at this time, I have cause for fervent gratitude 
to the benign Author of all good, for enabling me to 
struggle successfully against the natural propensities 
of my heart. It is indeed a continual contest : but 
v, r hen the soul is faint and weary, she can call for 
aid on almighty power : and she will not be 
left unaided till the warfare is over.— -Into this 
digression I have been led by the overflowings of 
my mind. My heart would not be content with a 
scanty tribute of praise to the long-continued mer- 
cies of my God, nor would it be satisfied with a 
slight mention of a subject respecting which it has 
so much been exercised. 

Amidst the perplexity which was naturally felt 
by my friends at seeing their endeavours for my wel- 
fare counteracted by causes which no human pow r er 
could remove, and amidst their painful hesitations 
in what manner they should dispose of me for fu- 
ture education, it chanced that I was visited by an 
acquaintance of my own age. He had for a con- 
siderable time been resident in the school esta- 
blished in the village of Fulneck (near Leeds, York- 
shire), a settlement or congregation-place of the 
United Brethren. He portrayed the school at 
Fnlneck as possessed of unparalleled excellencies, 



m 

minutely describing it and its dependencies, an*! 
decorating the whole in the most brilliant co- 
lours, My imagination was fired and captivated 
at the account of so enviable a situation, and I 
immediately besought permission to accompany 
my young friend to Fulneck, 

It may be conceived that such a solicitation was 
lea?d by my parents with a measure of satisfaction, 
considering the difficulties they had already un- 
dergone in seeking a situation for me, and the 
confidence which they naturally reposed in the con- 
ductors of the Fulneck school, as members of the 
»anae church with themselves. So important a step 
was however considered with due deliberation. At 
length it was determined that my request should be 
granted, and accordingly I bade a second farewell 
to my home. I was placed under the protection 
of a good-natured dissenting clergyman, who was 
travelling to the north, and the journey Avould have 
been truly agreeable, had it not been for its tre- 
mendous length of two hundred miles, and the 
rapidity with which we travelled. At. length, after 
three days journey, I cast my eyes, with united 
veneration and joy, upon the long-expected houses 
of Fulneck, and I found the ideas I had formed of 
them in fancy, surpassed by the reality. 

The village is situated on a rising ground; it is 



13 

built in a straight line; the chapel is in the centre; 
the schools for boys and girls, the houses of 
the single brethren and sisters, and the houses 
dedicated to mechanical labour, exactly corre- 
sponding on each side. A spacious and public 
gravel walk appeared in front of the buildings* 
The space before the chapel, however, was prohi- 
bited ground, and constituted the boundary betweea 
the male and female domain. From the gravel 
walk the ground exhibited a gentle declivity, which 
was covered with gardens, both for utility and or- 
nament. The huts of the extremely poor were 
concealed, that the beauty of the scene might suffer 
no detriment. This little district was purchased by 
the Moravians, that they might there erect a secure 
and independent settlement, in which none but the 
members of their own society should be permitted 
to live, except children hi the schools. For a 
series of successive years, their establishment has 
llourished and increased. It now affords no incon- 
siderable advantages for the education of youth of 
both sexes, of employment for the middle-aged, 
and of retirement for those who have known the 
world and have learned to despise its follies. 

When I had visited the various parts of the village 
in company with the resident clergyman, I was intro- 
duced with all becoming ceremony into my appro- 
priate room. It was not the custom there for thfi 



14 

whole school to assemble in one apartment, but ?re 
■were divided into five classes, each of which had a 
separate room, with two instructors : in addition 
to this we had masters occasionally attending, and 
the head-master was superintendant of the whole. 
Our advancement from room to room was guided 
by our improvement in learning, and the desire of 
attaining so envied an exaltation was a powerful 
stimulus to diligence in study. Our religious in- 
struction was as much an object of attention as 
our other pursuits. Every morning at eight o'clock 
we assembled in the chapel, where a brief dis- 
course was delivered to us in a style peculiarly 
adapted to children, altogether simple, and treat- 
ing on those prominent parts of Christian doctrine 
which to children are most attractive, and which 
they can best understand. It was also part of our 
daily task that we should commit to memory two 
texts of Scripture; and injustice to the masters of 
the establishment, I must add, that many of them 
were not remiss in labouring to further our ad- 
vance in religious knowledge, by the benefit of their 
private conversation. From these opportunities of 
improvement I derived much pleasure and profit : 
the advice which is affectionately whispered will 
melt the heart, and stamp an impression there 
which time in general is unable to efface. 

With regard to the nature of my pursuits ia 



15 

school, ttiey were such as are common. I went 
through a series of Latin exercises in company with 
my class ; but such was my aversion to the study of 
words, that I made no manner of progress in this 
new pursuit ; on the contrary, it was the subject 
of my rooted aversion. It may therefore be 
judged, that I remained in comparative ignorance 
as to the Latin language. French was afterwards 
introduced, but I found the cultivation of an ac- 
quaintance with words, whether from Italy, or 
France, to be equally irksome. 1 therefore suf- 
fered my forced attention towards languages to 
give way to my natural impulse, and dedicated all 
my thoughts to the other branches of learning. 

In this way for two years (without any occur- 
rence that deserves notice) I proceeded comfort- 
ably with my instructors, with my companions, 
and in myself; and ail my comforts were aug- 
mented by the particular kindness of the Rev* 
John Hartley, the resident minister, and (ex o£- 
ficio) head master. I am happy in an occasion of 
showing that I am not unmindful of his past bene- 
volence. But though every appearance was so 
flattering, it was my misfortune to feel that, while 
my mind was improving, my bodily frame was 
seriously weakened by the inclemency of the cli- 
mate, in the winter season. In the summer, in- 
deed, my powers were recruited and my health re- 



16 

stored ; but, as my parents were naturally dissa- 
tisfied at my annual illness, they reluctantly re- 
solved on my return home, and my father accord- 
ingly came to be my conductor, and guided me 
back to Bristol in the autumn of 1800. This 
journey was one of the most pleasant and useful I 
ever performed. As we advanced at leisure, we 
tad opportunities of visiting the various works 
©f nature and art that presented themselves in our 
way. I shall not easily forget the interesting 
objects I then beheld ; whether the mechanic arts 
of Sheffield and Birmingham, or the tremendous 
beauties of the Peak. 

But I must remember that I have not yet bid 
adieu to Fulneck. Within its confines some of 
the happiest of my days were passed. There was a 
predominant spirit of piety which produced a spirit 
of harmony and content, the benefits of which were 
experienced by old and young ; for where there is 
real piety, there will be lasting peace, either with 
individuals or communities ; and the petty bicker- 
ings which may casually arise, will speedily be re- 
moved on the principles of Christian love. This 
internal tranquillity which prevailed in Fulneck 
was the source of no small gratification to a mind 
constituted like mine, delighting in repose; nor 
was I less gratified by their artless exposition of 



17 

of divine truths, which (as I have already mentioned) 
we from day to day received. 

I turn with the most tender regret from the 
place where I received my education for two 
years; — where I was treated with uniform kind- 
ness; — where my understanding and my heart 
were alike the objects of attention, and perhaps 
were equally improved. But it will not easily be 
obliterated from my remembrance. Its houses, 
and terrace, and gardens, are still present to my 
sight. I will converse in fancy with the dear indivi- 
duals who condescended to administer to my puerile 
comforts. The scenes of pleasure crowd upon my 
mind ; and when, amidst my present solitude and 
gloom, I wish to be refreshed by the recollection 
of happy days, I send my thoughts to Fulneck. 
There is, however, an honest principle in the mind 
of man when unsophisticated, which leads him to 
prefer his home to every other scene. Contented, 
as I had been during my long absence, yet on re^ 
entering the door of my parental dwelling, my heart 
swelled with indistinct feelings of gentle transport, 
which it would be no disgrace to the triumphant 
hero to feel, when returning from the field of glory, 
or the statesman from the councils of his country* 
For the most exalted wisdom will ever be most 
ready to cherish the tender feelings of nature ; and 
though, with philosophical enlargement of the 



18 

mind, the sage may call the universe his home, 
yet where is the heart that has not experienced a 
soft partiality to the abodes of his birth and infancy 
in priority to spots in themselves more alluring? 
With such feelings I resumed my situation at 
home. The care of my health, during a most in* 
clement winter, was the primary object of my 
parents. 



Thus far did Worgan proceed in his own bio- 
graphy ; it falls to the lot of his friend to mark the 
dawnings of his genius, to trace its increasing ra- 
diance, and to follow it until the dark cloud of 
sickness and adversity shrouded it prematurely from 
farther display and further observation. 

In January 1 80 1 , he was placed as a daily scholar 
in the commercial school of Mr. Pocock of Bristol, 
where he made considerable progress in arithmetic, 
and acquired a competent knowledge of geography^ 
astronomy, and other branches of science ; he also 
improved his hand-writing, and thus reaped advan- 
tages which he probably would never have enjoyed 
to the same extent, had he been confined to the 
instructions of a classical school. 

It is seldom seen that superior genius can de-j 
scend to pursuits in which mechanical nicety and 
precision alone lead to perfection. Some very 



19 

exquisite maps which Worgan drew, while follow- 
ing his geographical studies, and indeed the neat- 
ness and correctness of all his performances, seemed 
to point out a path, as the appropriate lot of his 
future life, very different from that which his eager 
mind afterwards pursued in ascending the arduous 
steep which leads to learning and to fame. 

He was at this time introduced to M. Desprez, 
an emigrant French clergyman, and a descendant of 
him by whom, " Troja dum regna manebant" the 
editions of the classics, usually called the Dauphin, 
were edited and illustrated with notes and inter- 
pretations for the use of his royal pupils. This 
gentleman had discernment enough to perceive the 
latent abilities of his young friend, and in imparting 
to him his own language (in which, through his 
care, he attained very great freedom both in con- 
versation and composition) he endeavoured to in- 
troduce a relish for literary pursuits in general, and 
certainly succeeded to a considerable degree. But 
Worgan's French preceptor was shortly after 
elected professor of that language in the Military 
College atMarlow, where he died; and our youth 
himself was obliged to leave school, and, though 
not yet twelve years of age, to bring to practical 
use some parts of the mercantile education which 
he had been acquiring. 

We must therefore follow him into a new scene, 
c $ 



20 

4is, in consequence of the indisposition of his father, 
he was obliged, in June 1802, to become his assist- 
ant both in his trade of a watchmaker, and in his 
accounts. This he did with the greatest faith- 
fulness and alacrity ; and when, in a short time, 
his father became wholly confined, he divided his 
hours and attention between his s^ick bed and his 
business in the most exemplary and unremitting 
manner. The blessed end of his valuable parent, 
who died on the 2d of May 1803, made a deep and 
serious impression on his mind ; and his religious 
principles were illustrated by affectionate concern 
for his mother on so severe a loss, and the solidity 
and ability with which he arranged his father's 
affairs. 

In July 1803, he returned to Mr. Pocock's, with 
an intention of pursuing the course of instruction 
which he had commenced. But in January follow- 
ing, he revealed to his mother the wish he had long 
entertained of devoting himself to the service of 
God, by becoming a clergyman of the church of 
England ; and he therefore begged her permission 
to turn his mind to a classical education. His mo- 
ther, whose every care was centred in the pro- 
motion of his welfare, readily acceded to the re- 
quest. They consulted on the subject their friend, 
the Rev. T. T. Biddulph (of whom Worgan made 
so affectionate a notice in his own Memoirs), who, 



21 

expressing Ris approbation of his views, introduced 
him to the Rev. S*** S***, who presided in a 
large and highly respectable school in Bristol, at 
which he was accordingly entered as a day-scholar 
without delay. 

Here he enjoyed great and peculiar advantages ; 
advantages which soon called into action those 
latent energies of his mind, which only awaited 
some favouring opportunity of starting into notice. 
The first of these arose from the depth of erudi- 
tion, and the solidity of judgment which were 
united in the gentleman, under whom he had the 
good fortune to be placed; qualities which ren- 
dered him equally averse to a premature elevation 
of his pupils to the higher branches of study,, 
before the foundations of science were deeply and 
firmly established — and to a restraint of the laud- 
able efforts of real and aspiring genius. Another 
advantage of no small importance to our young 
academic, whose habits of seclusion had before 
entirely removed him from the company of young 
persons of his own age, and of liberal education, was 
derived from the opportunity now afforded him 
for association with such, and the stimulus which 
was thereby given to his future exertions. 

While Worgan was labouring with unremitting 
assiduity in acquiring the rudiments of classical 
learning, the higher divisions of the school con^ 
c 3 



22 

tained those whose talents and industry had laid 
open the rich mines of ancient lore, of which lie 
had scarcely explored the rough and foi bidding 
access, many of whom, to their surprise, found 
him, in a time incredibly short, arrived at a level with 
themselves, and able to contend with them for the 
meed of scholastic distinction. While he viewed 
the idle and the dissipated with pity and contempt, 
his ardent mind sought and attracted the friend- 
ship of many, who were actuated by sentiments 
similar to his own, with some of whom he main- 
tained habits of social and literary intercourse till 
the time of his death, and to whom the recollec- 
tion of that intercourse will probably form in 
future life not an ungrateful subject of frequent 
meditation. 

In one year and a half he passed through the 
regular stages by which a knowledge of Greek and 
Latin is usually acquired ; and at the expiration of 
that period was able to read with facility most of 
the books of highest rank. This extraordinary ra- 
pidity was partly the result of that unceasing per- 
severance which a regard to his future welfare 
urged him to employ, and partly arose from the 
abstraction of his thoughts from those minor 
branches of education which usually interfere 
with and protract the attainment of classical 
learning-. 



23 

His papers bear testimony to the care with 
which he pursued his studies ; as they contain, m 
addition to the ordinary exercises of themes and 
verses, an epitome of the Roman history, another 
of geography, and many translations from Justin, 
Eutropius, Cornelius Nepos, and the Eclogues 
of Virgil, by which he familiarized himself to 
rendering Latin into his own tongue with fluency 
and correctness. He also devoted some of his 
leisure hours to the acquisition of Hebrew, con- 
ceiving it to be a principal duty of one who as- 
pired to holy orders, to be familiar with the 
sacred records in their purest shape ; he studied 
it with the vowel points. 

Having completed his course of education at 
school, in July 1806 he undertook, for a short 
period, the tuition of a son of Richard Hart Davis, 
Esq. M.P. of Clifton ; and in September follow- 
ing, having not then completed his sixteenth year, 
he was admitted as private tutor into the family of 
Dr. Jenner, at Berkeley. 

This may appear to have been an arduous un- 
dertaking for one so young, but his most intimate 
friends scarcely recollect him ever to have been a 
boy ; so early was his mind formed and his judg^ 
ment matured. 

The following extract from a letter to his mo- 
ther, on being settled in this highly desirable situa^ 
C 4 



24t . 

tioti, affords a pleasing view of his feelings at this 
time>— 

" Cheltenham, Sept. 2,7. 
" When I reflect on the mercies I have received, 
and the advantageous situation in which I am 
placed, I cannot but fall with humble gratitude 
at the feet of Him, whose guardian love has 
hitherto protected me, and I trust will still be 
exerted in my preservation. I send you a 
sonnet, which I wrote in August last, but which 
is peculiarly applicable to my present circum^ 
stances: 

ee Long has my heart, devoid of anxious fears, 
Danc'd o'er the winding valley's flow'ry green; 

But now Discretion's arduous mount appears, 
And I must quit the vainly pleasing scene. 

Slow up the steep ascent, with trembling mind, 
My weary feet the sadd'ning road pursue j 

Nor shall my heart unsullied pleasure find, 
Till Salem's turrets meet the raptur'd view. 

O Thou, whose arm with guardian mercy led 

My wand'ring feet through childho6d's giddy maze, 

Extend thy sacred buckler round my head, 
While op'ning life her various form displays, 

Till by thy grace I tread the blissful shore 

Where dangers, griefs, and fears alarm no more." 



25 

The decision of our young tutor on a point of 
considerable importance to himself about this time, 
sufficiently marks the ripened state of his judgment. 
A kind friend had made very flattering proposals 
to him for immediately entering at College, the 
object of his warmest hopes, endeavouring, young 
as he was, to push his way there, and lay the 
immediate foundations of future celebrity. He 
pointed out at the same time certain exhibitions 
and other advantages whence a considerable aid to 
defray his expenees might be derived, and en- 
couraged him to look to his own exertions for the 
supply of the residue. To a mind panting for 
academic distinction, what offer could be more 
pleasing ? Worgan, no doubt, viewed with delight 
the opening prospect, but he was not dazzled with 
it ; for mature reflection taught him that it was his 
true interest to check his youthful ardour, enjoying 
with patience the important opportunities of im- 
provement which his present residence afforded, 
and awaiting the time, when a more advanced 
age, improved abilities, and more ge eral informa- 
tion, would enable him to enter on his career with 
surer prospects of success, and when the interme- 
diate accumulation of his pecuniary fund would 
enable him to pursue it with greater e^se and in- 
dependence. He accordingly declined with thank- 
ful ness the friendly proposals. 



26 

Many oi the compositions of our young poet 
breathe the melancholy air of tender and disap- 
pointed affection, while some passages are en- 
livened by its more favourable views ; and he may 
appear liable to the charge of supposing, with 
Cowley, that poets are scarcely thought freemen 
of their company without paying some duties to 
love, and of therefore " fatiguing his fancy and 
ransacking his memory for images which might 
exhibit the gaiety of hope, or the gloominess of 
despair, which he never felt, and of dressing an 
imaginary mistress sometimes in flowers fading as 
her beauties, sometimes in gems lasting as her 
virtues," — a folly which Dr. Johnson so justly 
ridicules. 

To rescue him, therefore, from such an imputa^ 
tion, and to account for this tone of some of his 
poems, it is proper to state, that about this time 
his affections became really fixed on an amiable 
young lady, whose relations thought proper to 
withhold their countenance from the connexion, 
iLXid therefore restricted him from her society, and 
in other respects opposed its progress. This con- 
duct produced an agitation of mind which accom- 
panied him through all the remaining stages of 
life, until he approached the borders of the grave, 
when his gracious God and Father was pleased to 
say unto his troubled soul, " Peace, .-fee still ! " tran- 



S7 

quillizing its every tumult, and filling it with the 
beatific vision of the joys for which he was about 
to exchange the thorny and rugged paths of his 
mortal pilgrimage. 

The following extract of a letter to his kind 
friend Mr, Hayley, while it affords a pleasing 
view of the genuine humility of his mind, and the 
increasing diffidence whicrr increasing years and 
increasing knowledge inspired, describes with in- 
teresting simplicity what was passing within it Dn 
this unfortunate subject: 

" I pride myself, my dear Sir, not a little on 
my having mustered sufficient magnanimity to pre- 
vent your flattering approbation from rendering 
me too bold, and inducing me to venture beyond 
my proper sphere. The historic poem, on the 
Spanish Vaccine Expedition, which you had the 
kindness to suggest, I had often before projected; 
but I as often relinquished the undertaking, from 
a consciousness of my inability to do justice to the 
subject. The important caution, " Sumite ma- 
teria.ni? Sic. though it once " grated horrible dis- 
cord" upon my ears, is at present my leading 
maxim in every poetical attempt. Instead, there- 
fore, of endeavouring to wing my way into the 
regions of historic verse, I am content, for the 
present, to appear before you in the garb of an 



28 

humble sonnetteer. From a centenary of sonnets, 
which I have lately finished, I have selected a few, 
which I take the liberty of enclosing to you ; and 
if, my dear Sir, when you have no better occupa- 
tion, you would have the great goodness to favour 
me with your general animadversions, I need not 
say how much you would add to the load of obli- 
gations, which you have already conferred upon 
me by your unmerited benevolence. The melan- 
choly tone that pervades the majority of the 
sonnets, may perhaps be regarded as affectation in 
the writings of one, who has scarcely emerged 
from puerility, and it may be suspected that I have 
caught the fashionable rage for doleful ditties. Not 
a sentiment however have I uttered, which did not 
proceed from the bottom of my heart. Though 
young in years, I am old in the school of adver- 
sity ; and the lessons which it has there been my 
destiny to learn, from a long continuance of the 
sorrows that prey upon the heart, have rendered 
me callous to earthly objects. Though scarcely 
set out on the journey of life, my feet are weary, 
and I find the prospect of a happier world to be 
the only source of tranquillity and' comfort amidst 
the miseries of this. Pardon an unwilling egotist 
for troubling you with this mournful rhapsody. 
My object is to explain the feelings by whigh 



29 

many of the sonnets were prompted, and to pre* 
vent your mistaking reality for fiction. 

" And now let me present to you my warmest 
thanks for the critical observations, with which 
you favoured me on my elegiac verses. Of the 
errors and deficiencies, which you kindly pointed 
out, I am fully sensible, and my own deliberate 
judgment has convinced me of many others. I 
daily congratulate myself, with increasing satis- 
faction, on my having resisted, by your advice, 
the solicitations of partial friends and the sugges- 
tions of my own vanity, which loudly whispered 
" publication" in my ear a considerable time ago. 
I find that the increase of knowledge is accompa- 
nied by an increase of timidity, which I hope may 
be a sign of improvement ; and he, who at sixteen 
would boldly have commenced an epic, at eighteen 
undertakes the smallest composition with a degree 
of diffidence." 

But Worgan was not neglectful of his great 
object ; he continued his studies with vigour and 
success : a series of notes on JEschines and Pindar, 
and a translation of the Poetics of Aristotle, which 
are found among his papers, prove, that, in apply- 
ing to the " Qr&ca exemplaria" he spared no 
profitable exertion. Hi3 enlarged acquaintance 
with English poetry now began to have its effect 
5 



w 

art hisr owrr versification, the productions of thi# 
year (among which were " The Recollections 
OF A Summers Day," his longest poem) possess* 
kig a greater ease and fluency of diction than i«? 
found in some of his earlier efforts. He also studied 
the rules of his art with attention, and wrote art 
epitome of Vida's Art of Poetry. 

In the spring of 1807 he was afflicted with a 
typhus fever ; on recovering from which he visited 
his friends at Bristol, arid in the course of the 
summer accompanied Dr. Jenner and his family 
to London. The intercourse which his residence 
there afforded him an opportunity of enjoying 
with many distinguished literary characters, while 
it was highly gratifying to him, assisted in the 
formation of his taste, added to his stock of in-* 
formation, and enlarged his ideas. 

He returned to Cheltenham in the course of 
the year, and applied his leisure hours to the ac- 
quisition of Italian, promising himself, in the 
sweetness of Italian song, an ample reward for 
his labour ; and he does not appear to have been 
disappointed. He was a great admirer of some 
of the sonnets of Petrarch, and intended to form 
a selection of them in English verse. But too- 
strained an application, with the continual anguish* 
of thwarted affection, were beginning to produce 
in our young friend the usual attendants on early 



31 

and extraordinary talent. The fruit which shows 
symptoms of ripening before its regular season, 
too often changes its promising appearance, to 
wither and to die. Under the apprehension, how- 
ever, of such consequences, his state of mind was 
pious and pleasing, as appears by the following 
extract from a letter to a friend : 

" An extraordinary determination of the blood to 
the brain vehemently affected my eyesight, and 
somewhat endangered my senses, and obliged me 
to desist from my studies for a considerable time } 
and at present I have but partially renewed them* 
Thanks to the mercies of the all-di&posing Power, 
the apprehension of danger is now entirely past \ 
and as the tranquillity of my mind is re-esta- 
blished, and my head much relieved by Dr. Jen- 
ner's advice, I trust, through the Divine blessing, 
I shall shortly be able to return to my ordinary 
employments. And may the restoration of my 
health and of my mental powers be accompanied 
by a renewed dedication of the whole to the ser- 
vice of Him from whose bounty they are all de- 
rived, that, in prosperity and adversity, in sick- 
ness and health, in youth and age, in life and 
death, the Lord Jehovah may be my strength and 
my song." 



A suspension of all study was the consequent 
of this attack; which had not long spent itself, 
when, soon after the return of Dr. Jenner's fa- 
mily to Berkeley, in June 1808, he was again 
visited with the typhus fever in a more violent 
dhape than before. The effects of this last disease 
he never recovered, being frequently troubled with 
a pain in his side and chest, a slight cough, and 
constant indigestion — alarming symptoms, which, 
however, never produced in his own mind any 
strong apprehension of ultimate danger. A fort- 
night's visit to his mother in Bristol having again 
recruited his strength, he returned to his favourite 
pursuits with renewed ardour, inflamed with the 
prospect of his removal to college in the course of 
the ensuing year, for which be had made arrange- 
ments. 

In the winter he read Demosthenes, some of 
the tragedies of Sophocles, and added Longinus 
and Plato to the list of his Greek authors. 

During all this time Worgan was a prej to 
the anguish which the disappointment of its ten- 
derest feelings excited"; and his mind became thus 
ao absorbed, that he was in a measure disquali- 
fied even for his accustomed application, until at 
length the faculties of body and soul equally 
yielded to the grasp of complicated wretchedness. 
What might not such talents and such industry 



33 

have produced, had there been nothing to paralyze 
their efforts ! 

His friends having recommended him to yield 
for a time to the driving storm, and to discontinue 
any intercourse with his affectionate friend until 
appearances smiled more favourably on him, he 
acceded to the proposal, and on the eve of this 
separation addressed to her a most affecting paper 
of tender and valuable admonitions. Some ex- 
tracts from it are here introduced, because they 
cannot fail to interest the reader in favour of our 
young poet, and because they show that his at- 
tachment was founded on the basis of religious 
principle, and conducted with a propriety and 
solidity of judgment which, in such circumstances, 
would have done honour to more repined years. 



" As I know not how soon the proposed ar- 
rangements will be terminated, which are to sepa- 
rate me for so long a time from the beloved 
object of my unchanging affection, and having 
many observations, on a variety of subjects, which 
I anxiously wish to express to her in a permanent 
form, I shall, as leisure opportunities occur, com- 
mit those observations to paper, for the purpose 
of presenting them to her, when the sad period 
* 



34 

for our parting interview shall arrive. I shall 
place them in her hands as a sacred deposit, ac- 
companied by my fervent benedictions ; and per- 
haps it may be pleasant to her to read them over, 
when she can no longer see nor hear from him 
who wrote them. 

" But how shall I begin ? My heart is so full, 
that it is almost unable to speak : and the tears 
that stream from my eyes (which all my philoso- 
phy cannot prevent from flowing) almost prevent 
me from fulfilling the task which I have begun. 
But stay yourselves, my tears, a little ; let me 
describe to my love the feelings of my heart. 
Then will I retire to the solitude in which afflic- 
tion delights, and you may flow again unblamed, 
where no eye shall see you but the eye of Heaven. 

" My prayer will for ever be, that the mercy 
of Providence may eternally attend my beloved 
friend, to protect her from every danger, and to 
crown her with every blessing ; 



that every obstacle to our happiness may be re- 
moved ; that, while we remain in the present 
sphere of being, our lives may promote the glory 
of our Creator, the welfare of others, and our 
own mutual comfort ; and that, when the period 
of our departure is arrived, we may meet again ia 



35 

a better land, to be no more separated. Such is 
the prayer, my dear friend, which will unceasingly 
flow from my heart, and I feel assured that it will 
find an echo in yours. 

" You have often requested me to use towards 
you unreserved freedom and sincerity on every 
point. This you well know that I have invariably 
done ; and on such an occasion as the present, if I 
make some friendly remarks, and dwell upon them 
with peculiar force, I feel assured that you will 
receive them as you have been accustomed to do, 
convinced that they proceed alone from the soli- 
citude for your welfare, which affection inspires. 

" To expatiate to you, my sweet friend, on the 
importance of properly dedicating your thoughts to 
the subjects which religion holds forward to the 
view, would be altogether superfluous. It would 
ill become me, who need so much instruction 
myself, to offer instructions to you on these topics. 
You know how indispensable is the duty of sin- 
cerely repenting of the sinfulness by which the 
best parts of our lives have been marked, and, by 
the help of Divine grace, of resolutely forsaking 
it. You know how necessary it is that our 
thoughts should be elevated above the perishable 
earth we inhabit, and that our affections should 
be purified and consecrated to the objects of eter- 
nity. Yet, conscious as I am of my own imper- 
P 2 



$6 

fection, and feeling as I do how difficult it is t# 
subdue the force of inclination, and to act as we 
know we ought, I am convinced of this painful 
truth, that " it is not the knowledge of our duty 
which will secure the performance of it." From 
the influence of education, and the subsequent 
tenour of my life, I believe there is no point of 
moral or religious duty with which I am unac- 
quainted ; yet, alas ! not a day rolls over my head, 
in \\fricli my conscience does not tell me that I 
have in some particular either failed of acting as 
I ought, or positively acted as I ought not. When, 
therefore, I speak of the frailty of our nature, I 
speak of what I know of my own. Our hearts 
are weak indeed; but there is a consideration 
which I have found of infinite energy in aiding the 
resolutions of virtue. This consideration consists 
in a proper view of the principles of our existence, 
of the distinct nature of the soul from the body, 
of the importance of the one and the worthless- 
ness of the other, and the motives arising thence 
for the cultivation of purity in the soul, to detach 
it from the pollutions of the world, and to render 
it such, while it remains in its tenement of clay, 
that its separation from it, when the hour of death 
arrives, may be a matter of exultation, and not of 
dread. 

" Think on these subjects with the attention 



37 

they require. Kow much preferable are thej to 
all the ordinary pursuits of life ! Yes ! though 
the gay world may laugh at the doctrine, our 
bodies are nothing but mansions in which our 
souls are to move • they will therefore si 
return to their native dust. But our rational, im- 
material, immortal souls shall remain for ever un- 
conscious of decay, in unutterable happiness or 
misery. Sensible of these things, how can we doat 
on the pageants of an hour, and overlook the sacred 
realities, whose importance shall know no end ? 
So powerful, my beloved, does this reflection ap- 
pear to my mind, that I shall take it as the basis 
of my arguments on every other point which I may 
have to notice. 

" As a concluding remark, however, on the 
subject of religion, I must observe, that neither this 
argument, nor any other' of itself, is sufficient to 
control the stubborn heart of man. No ; logical 
deductions and demonstrations cannot make us 
Christians. Humility is the foundation of reli- 
gion ; by humility we are led to prayer ; by prayer 
we are endowed with faith ; by faith we are taught 
to live above the world ; our affections are weaned 
from its trifles ; we feel a species of sacred in- 
difference towards its vain concerns ; the aspira- 
tions of the soid are directed to Heaven ; there 
its hopes are fixed ; and by faithful devotion it 
D 3 



33 

shakes off the frailties that cling to its nature, till 
at length, when its earthly duties are expired, it 
is translated to the mansions of the sky. Endless 
is this ennobling subject ; but I shall desist from 
further remarks, both because it would be super- 
fluous in writing to you, and because, in the brief 
observations which I have already made, I believe 
I have included the sum total of natural and re- 
vealed religion. One remark, however, I would 
repeat, from a consciousness of its pre-eminent 
importance — il at sincere devotion and humble 
prayer are the soul of religion, and constitute its 
most genuine criterion, and its most powerful 
support. 

" And now let me descend from the grand 
principles of human act ; n to the more particular 
points of conduct, which, though they may appear 
unimportant, if considered separately, are, in the 
aggregate, of no trifling moment. 

" I would speak first of society. We imper- 
ceptibly acquire the habits of those with whom 
Ave are accustomed to associate ; we imbibe their 
sentiments, and not unfrequently imitate them. 
Hence arises the infinite importance of properly 
selecting our company, since no language can ex- 
press the benefit we may derive from the society 
of those whose minds are well directed, nor the 



injury we may receive from those of a contrary 
character. 



" You can never want for the most animating 
recreations, while the beauties of nature and the 
pages of literature are open to your view. And 
if any hesitation should arise in your mind as to 
the propriety of the advice I have given, simply 
ask yourself what line of conduct will ultimately 
afford you the most satisfaction ; — to decline the 
general society of the world, and to seek pleasures 
from those alone, w r hose worth and whose affec- 
tion have long been tried ; or to go into the pro- 
miscuous companies of the weak and gay, where 
folly for ever predominates. But if you decline 
invitations, you may be deemed uncivil, be re 
proa-hed with foolish singularity, and be ridiculed 
by your acquaintance ! True ; yet if we wish to 
do our duty, and to lead a life of true happiness, 
we must dare to be singular, and endure to be 
ridiculed' and censured ; otherwise we shall meet 
with double ridicule. We shall be laughed at for 
having been once what is called singular, and we 
shall be ridiculed still more for having been so 
weak as to be laughed out of our former resolu- 
tions. I know that these observations are alt >ge- 
ther needless to convince your mind of the justness 
D 4 



40 

of what I hsve said. But I know also how many 
difficulties you will have to encounter in doing 
what you wish, and what you know to be right ; 
and therefore I am desirous to furnish you with 
arguments; which may fortify your mind. I know 
that your sentiments perfectly concur with mine ; 
but as you will have the sentiments of the world 
in opposition to you, it is necessary that you 
should be prepared for the contest. 

" And now to auother subject, with which the 
ladies will say that I have no right to meddle; but 
when writing to my long-loved friend, I shall take 
the liberty of meddling with every subject that 
occurs to my mind : — A allude to dress. The ge- 
nerality of females inquire not what is becoming, 
but what is fashionable, and by fashion they have 
long been led into the most glaring improprieties, 
content to make a sacrifice of delicacy, and almost 
of decency. To be sure, a lady thus accoutred 
dots bilt imitate her associates, and is admired for 
her reputed elegance and taste ; but surely it sa- 
vours of insanity to court applause and imitate 
others, to the dereliction of duty and propriety. 
There is no sight on earth that disgusts me more 
than a female arrayed according to the law r s of 
modem fashion; by assuming such a figure she 
throws away the charm of modesty, which is the. 
most lovely feature of female excellence ; she may 



41 

attract a short-lived admiration by the appearance 
of her person, but she will never win the affees 
tions nor conciliate esteem. I am not going to 
give you a long lecture on these matters. You 
have no desire of admiration, or of empty praise to 
direct vou in your appearance ; I am sure that 
you will concur m my sentiments, and see nothing 
in them contrary to reason, however contrary they 
may be to fashion ; I shall therefore say no more, 
excej'c that I conceive that dress to be most be- 
coming which is most modest, most reserved, 
most simple^ and most plain. You see how freely 
I tell you my thoughts. I am sure you will not be 
angry with me, but thank me for doing so. Nor 
is it a matter of indifference, as many who have 
no other plea are anxious to inculcate ; for it is 
by the manner in which we act as to externals, 
that the internal state of the mind will be shown. 
Those must of necessity be vain and foolish who 
yield in dress, or in any other instance, to the al- 
lurements of vanity and folly. 

" The whole of these prolix and desultory re- 
marks cannot be more powerfully enforced than by 
a brief reference to the sublime argument already 
mentioned, of the distinct nature of the soul from 
the body. This argument will apply with equal 
propriety to every subject. If the soul be of 
-a divine essence, of everlasting; duration, and if 



the body be but a machine which the soul is t» 
guide for a little time, how important is it that 
the soul be exalted above the vanities of earth by 
the influence of religion ! How anxiously should 
it shun the degrading society of the children of 
vanity ! How should it cultivate the pleasures of 
abstracted contemplation I How should it dis- 
dain to employ its cares in decorating the body, 
which will shortly go to the dust ! How firmly 
should it resist the influence of fashion and cus- 
tom ! In a word, how constantly should it labour 
to rise superior to the body, to the earth, and to 
all the objects of time ; and how should it, above 
all things, desire to be clothed with the garment 
©f salvation, and thus to be found prepared when 
the Angel of Death shall come to remove it to 
the eternal world 1 

"^There is another point which I mention with 
more hesitation, and upon which I shall speak with 
more diffidence, since in that you will not be an in- 
dependent agent, but will proceed of course in a 
great degree under the direction of your mother. 
This is the education of your little sister. 

" To suppose that this should be conducted and 
completed by you, would be irrational. But to give 
her the rudiments of know ledge, to direct her pro- 
gress in the paths of childhood, and to transfuse the 
principles of your mind into hers, must be to you 



4S 

an easy and plea?ing office. As the peculiar 
branches of female education proceed, I presume, 
upon established laws, and are scarcely to be un- 
derstood by any but your own sex, it will be most 
prudent and most becoming in me, to speak only 
on general subjects. Leaving you to guide her in 
secondary matters, as custom prescribes, I shall 
only notice what I conceive I may be allowed to 
understand, viz. the guidance of her mind : but 
even here I shall only suggest, and not direct. 

" Inculcate with particular emphasis, even in her 
present early years, how innumerable are the plea- 
sures and advantages to be derived from the perusal 
of the compositions of genius, that a love of read- 
ing may be fostered in her mind. This will be the 
best support and defence of her understanding and 
of her heart. It will leave her no hours of idleness, 
which are more fatal to virtue than even hours of 
dissipation. It will furnish her with maxims of 
wisdom, to guide her course, when she has no 
living adviser to consult; and a mind thus furnished 
has resources for pleasure for ever at its command, 
and Knowledge will smile upon it, with Honour 
and Contentment in her train. In conversing with 
her on subjects of religion, I advise you never to 
suffer an idea to enter her mind, of the controversial 
perplexities which have disgraced the Christian 
world, and impeded the progress of religion. Tell 



44 

her simply this : Man is a sinner, and,, as such, de- 
served both present and future misery; but that, 
through the atonement which was made for our 
offences by the death of Christ, we may be recon- 
ciled to Heaven, if we forsake our sins, and labour 
to fulfil the divine commandments by such works 
as Christianity requires, 

" This is the Christian faith : teach her this 
alone; never let her hear of Calvinism, Armi- 
nianism, or the other classes of polemic theolo- 
gists. Teach her that the church of England is 
the most perfect of ail religious establishments; 
let her therefore adhere to it ; but let her at the 
same time regard with a friendly eye, her fellow- 
creatures of every persuasion ; for universal bene- 
volence and love are the distinguishing features of 
Christianity. You cannot impress religious prm* 
ciples upon the mind too early ; yet you must 
watch fur those opportunities, when she is in the 
humour of hearing serious conversation, and never 
say too much at a time. A few striking seasonable 
remarks, introduced without any formality, will 
produce a much more powerful effect than the 
most able discourse, if ill-timed, long, or formal. 

" Do not set her to learn chapters or hymns.— 
Religion will be disgusting when it is enforced as 
a task. To children perhaps it should be held 
forth as a priviiedge, rather than as a duty ; for the 



45 

youthful heart recoils from ever}' thing that savours 
af coercion. As to moral principles, they are in- 
cluded in religion, but I would advise you particu- 
larly to show her how important is one thing, for 
which (excuse me) your sex is not famous. I 
mean the keeping secrets, and detesting the exe- 
crable office of tale-bearer, and the flippancy of fe- 
male conversation, which often leads to slander. 
If she is acquainted with the failings of others, 
teach her to conceal and not to publish them. 
Teach her to venerate the name of affection, the 
most generous and divine of all human passions, and 
let her look up to this for the sweetest pleasures of 
her life, as we, my -friend, have done, and have 
not been disappointed. In speaking of education 
I am engaged on an endless subject, but 1 will add 
no more st present, except that you should rule 
your dear litde Si-ie: by the control of affection 
alone, that ^he may come to you for instruction 
with joy, and not with reluctance* r Ihu3, by the 
t of J -s e'uven upon your labours, may vonr 
nster resemble ! . . - ; new in a happier 

land, that thus she may become a pleasing and af- 
fectionate companion to yon, till the joyful period 
arrives, when I shall claim you as my own. 

i{ From these remarks concerning your sister, I 
would proceed, my dear friend 5 , to a few suggestions 
relating to yourself, on subjects somewhat similar. 1 



46 

would advise you to cultivate an acquaintance witk 
the French writers, which will perfect your know- 
ledge of their language; but yous principal attention 
must be given, of cour e, to tfee writers in our own. 
Do not read hovels. I am not one of those who 
yaise a hue and cry against them as the bane of youth ; 
but though they may do no positive harm to the 
mind, they certainly can do it no good ; and the 
waste of so much time, as the perusal of one of them 
would require, is surely harm enough to cause their 
expulsion from every library. On subjects of reli- 
gion, I would advise you to read nothing but the 
Bible, taking it as its own interpreter, and particu- 
larly the epistolary prat of the New Testament, 
The history of every nation, both ancient and 
modern, I would wish you to read attentively. 
As to poetry, and works of general information, 
read whatever pleases your fancy, provided at the 
same time it is instructive as well as pleasing. I 
flatter myself that the works of the various writers 
with which I have had the pleasure of furnishing 
you, will afford you an ample repast in the lite- 
rary way. But, after ail, to read is not of so 
much importance as to think. Seek therefore, 
my beloved, the shades of solitude, and cultivate 
serious reflection and contemplative thought.—* 
When we are most retired from the world, we 
approach the nearest to the happiness of heaven* 



47 

And by habits of solitary meditation, the benefits 
of reading will be doubled, the pleasures of occa- 
sional society will be heightened, and all the en- 
joyments of active life will acquire a higher zest. 

" From the care of the mind, allow me to 
descend to the care of the body ; a subject of less 
importance indeed, but still of very high moment. 
On this I have said so much in the days that are 
gone, and in my former letters, that I have no- 
thing now to add. By way of recapitulation, how- 
ever, let me conjure you, as you value my earthly 
happiness, and your own, let your health be the 
object of your unceasing care. 



" Follow this advice, my dear, with implicit 
obedience. I know it to be indispensably neces- 
sary, both to restore your constitution from the 
alarming injury it has received, and also to pre- 
serve it in health when it is happily restored* 
Anxious as I have always been concerning your 
health, I shall be a thousand times more anxious 
when parted from you. As you wish therefore to 
promote my peace, and to free me from distress, I 
beseech you take care of yourself, and attend to my 
solicitations, without deviating from them-. 

" On the familiar incidents of life,, which -are 
generally denominated trifles, but which, though 



48 

trifles in themselves, have no trifling influence lft 
promoting the comfort or infelicity of the greater 
part of mankind, I have only one remark to make- 
When any circumstance occurs which vexes you, 
ask yourself, what you will think of the circum- 
stance, and how much importance will attach to 
it when a month is past ! Thus will all the 
mighty vexations of life dwindle into nothing ! 

" I would beg leave to enforce the whole of 
these desultory remarks, by a brief reference to 
the sublime argument I mentioned before, of the 
distinct nature of the soul from the body. This 
will apply with equal propriety to every subject L 
have noticed. 

" Thus have I, with the undisguised freedom 
of a glowing heart, endeavoured to portray to 
the dear object of my affection, the sentiments 
that are uppermost in my mind : I have spoken 
indeed without the smallest reserve. That she 
will concur in my sentiments, 1 feel the fullest 
confidence ; that she will undeviatingly attend to 
my advice, I am equally sure ; and I know that 
she will receive this paper with the same feeling 
with which I have written it, and that she will wel- 
come it to her bosom as the last token of affection 
which it is at present in my power to bestow. 

March 25, 18Q9- " J. D. WJ' 



49 

Having taken a violent cold in the winter, the 
pulmonary symptoms increased, and, towards the 
Jatter end of March 1809, a copious spitting of 
Mood reduced him exceedingly, so that he became 
entirely a prisoner in his chamber. The utmost 
skill of his kind patron was exerted in his behalf, 
while his tender attentions, and those of each 
amiable member of his family, united with the 
presence of his mother, who was kindly invited to 
remain with him during his illness, concurred to 
palliate the disease, and render his situation as 
comfortable as possible, For a time, the malady 
appeared to yield in a slight measure to the remer 
dies proposed, and he found himself capable of 
bearing a removal m Dr. Jenner's carriage to his 
mother's house in Bristol, about the end of May. 

The following interesting note was addressed to 
his friend Mr. Biddulph, from his sick room at 
Berkeley : 



TO THE REV, T. T. EIDDULPH. 

" Berkeley, Friday Afternoon^ 

" REV. AND DEAF SIE, 

" I experienced a s;reat disappointment on 
Jiearing that your visit to Berkeley was postponed. 
I longed to have seen you, that I might have en~ 



50 

joyed your conversation ttsqi tuv jay} jSX«9rojutfiy&r/. 
Your kind letter was, indeed, a most welcome 
cordial to my mind. I need consolation; yet I 
feel that I have still greater need of instruction 
and advice. Since then there is no prospect of 
my being able as yet to receive these from you in 
person, as I have often had the privilege of doing, 
may I solicit the great favour of you to transmit 
them to me by correspondence (that happy sub- 
stitute for conversation), when you have a leisure 
opportunity which you cannot better employ. I 
cannot but know how much you are engaged ; yet, 
if it be in your power to favour me with such a 
letter as I have taken the liberty of soliciting, J 
know that your sympathetic feelings will prompt 
you to write, particularly when you are told that 
lie who solicits your advice ' tzgrotat animo : 
e magis quam corpore. 9 

" This mental disease arises not from what poets 
call the ' immedicabile vulnus.' My tender dis- 
tresses brought me, indeed, in a great measure to. 
my present state of bodily weakness ; but they 
now are all removed, and peace on these matters 
is perfectly restored to my mind. The source 
of my concern is this : After having laboured 
(since I have had the power of labouring) in the 
acquisition of knowledge and the pursuit of praise, 
I ponder on what I have attained, and in spite of 



61 

the glossy arguments of infatuated fancy, the voice 
of conviction will be heard, pronouncing that all 
is vanity. Here then I have no resting-place for 
my soul. I seek it where 1 kuow it is to be found, 
but my thoughts are all dark and uncertain. I 
resolve to forsake the vanities and follies of former 
days, yet I cannot satisfy myself, whether this 
resolution proceeds from the judgment of the 
head, or the contrite feelings of the heart. I 
pray, not without earnestness, but am oppressed 
by the same mistrust, whether my applications 
are the aspirations of a sincere heart, or the effu- 
sions merely of the head. You see my state, my 
dear Sir. 1 live between hope and fear; but 
what I dread more than these mental tumults is, 
the deadly calm of a delusive peace. Pardon, my 
dear Sir, this garrulity. I can say no more through 
weakness. 

il Ever your most truly obliged 

*' And affectionate servant, 

" J, D. WORGAN." 



So great was the activity of Worgan's mind, 
that he found nothing so difficult to support as 
that vacancy of thought which was inculcated on 
him duriDg his long confinement; and it was 



52 

found necessary, whenever he was able to sit up 
at all, to allow him a moderate use of his books, 
for the purpose of alleviating the ennui which 
want of occupation produced. 

Before his illness, he had read with much plea- 
sure the Enchiridion of Epictetus (a convenient 
pocket edition of which had been presented to 
him by his kind friend the Rev. William Davies, of 
Rockhampton), and he thought himself fortified 
by its philosophy against the adverse accidents of 
life, and the apprehension of death. That vo- 
lume, with a variety of other books and papers, 
was lying on his table when a young friend called 
on him during his confinement. Pointing to the 
Epictetus, he said, " That is a book with which 
I was some time since delighted ; I studied it, and 
thought myself, wrapt up in its philosophy, to be 
secure against all the storms of fate ; but the se- 
curity was quite theoretical. I have found the 
conclusions of proud reason to be very deficient 
for practical application. It is in the book of 
Revelation alone that the antidote to adversity is 
to be found. The consolation of a sick bed and 
of a dying hour must come from above." 

Soon after his return to Bristol, he inquired 
of his mother the opinion which the medical gen- 
tleman who then attended him expressed of his 
case ; and on being answered only by her tears, he. 



53 

Said, " Your tears speak ; I have thought for this 
month past that I should not recover ; I feel my 
strength gradually decreasing, and I know that I 
am in the second stage of a consumption. I must 
confess that I felt at the beginning of my illness a 
great desire to recover : I had just arranged my 
affairs respecting going to the University. Bright 
were my prospects, but how soon are they clouded ! 
Oh, for entire resignation to the Divine will ! " 

Finding himself thus gradually sinking, although 
at times his mind was anxiously employed respect- 
ing the future fate of his papers, and the oblivion 
which he feared would enwrap his name; yet he en- 
deavoured to throw off considerations such as these, 
and to devote himself to the great work of pre- 
paring for another world. The desire of literary 
distinction appears to have been the last earthly 
propensity that he felt ; it had possessed a strong 
hold on his heart, but it was subdued. He had 
fully perceived the insufficiency of that philosophy 
which an acquaintance with Plato and the other 
sophists had familiarized to him. He felt that 
nothing but a revelation from above could afford 
relief suitable to the case of depraved nature ; and 
the near view of a spiritual state of existence 
which \ie now had, urged him to seek reconcilia- 
tion with God, through the mediation of the mer- 
ciful Saviour of a lost world. 
E 3 



m 

Addressing his mother one day, he said, " I 
have had a religious education, and I enjoyed it ; 
it was always a pleasure to me from my childhood 
to attend the means of grace ; I loved the house 
of God and the people of God ; I approved of 
the doctrines of the Gospel, and through restrain- 
ing grace I have been kept from the vices that 
young people are often drawn into : but all this is 
not sufficient ; I have been very deficient in the 
vital and practical part of Christianity ; I have 
much to mourn over, and I now feel, with death 
i» my view, the necessity of a true conversion, of 
an entire change, a being < born again/ I must 
know for myself, my interest in that salvation 
which Christ has wrought or purchased for sin- 
Hers-. Oh that my repentance may be sincere ! I 
would not be deceived for worlds/' This dread of 
self-deception affording prominent evidence of 
sincerity, was frequently and strongly expressed in 
various conversations which he held with his cle- 
rical friend before referred to. 

The following short note was the last which 
employed his pen : 



TO MR. T. S. BIDDULPH. 

" June 30, I8O9. 
" Though I am sure, that my valued friend, Mr. 
T. Biddulph, will not forget me, though without 
the formality of a particular token of regard, yet 
I beg that, when I am no more, the poems of the 
Rev. Henry Moore be presented to him in my 
name. May the prevalent glow of piety animate 
his heart; and, from the admirable union of re- 
ligion and poetry, may the former be sweeter to 
his taste as introduced by the latter. May all his 
pursuits be sanctified. Amidst the occupations of 
earth may he watch and pray ; and may the object 
of all his studies be to promote the glory of the 
dear Redeemer. For the time will shortly come, 
when he shall learn (as / have done) that human 
knowledge, unsanctified, is an empty bubble, and 
that no wisdom will avail, but a knowledge of 
ourselves as sinners, and of Jesus Christ as our 
Saviour. 

" John D. Worgan." 



He was frequently in conversation with his 
mother, and often expressed his acknowledge 

E4 



56 

ments for her tenderness and affectionate atten- 
tions to him ; and would speak of the comfort that 
possessed his mind, even in the midst of afflictions 
so severe. (i I have been/' said he, " endeavour- 
ing to attain one of the highest seats in the literary 
\vorld r but it is ail vanity: I can now willingly 
resign it, to obtain the lowest seat in Heaven." 

Filial piety, indeed, formed at this time a most 
interesting feature in his character; another, not 
less engaging, was his anxious desire to eradicate 
from his memory any injurious treatment which 
he had received, and to cultivate a spirit of good- 
will to all, accompanied by a hope that a similar 
disposition would be extended towards him by 
any whom he had the misfortune to have offended. 
" I have earnestly, prayed," said he, " that God 
would remove every thing of an unpleasant nature^ 
from my mind, and that I might, from my heart, 
forgive those few persons who have treated me 
with unkind ness ; and I have been enabled not 
only to forgive them, but to pray for them ; and 
my mind is in perfect peace with every one. I 
can truiy say, I am happy, very happy." 

On the 17th of July he took an affectionate 
farewell of his younger brother and his sister, ex- 
horting them to shun the vanities of the world, 
and to devote their hearts to the service of God. 
He afterwards^ with one or two of his most in- 



57 

tiutate friends, received the Holy Sacrament. r f he 
ceremony, as might be expected in such circum- 
stances, was peculiarly striking — 'solemnity and 
devotion marked the countenance and the conduct 
of the youthful saint, while he joined in it. 

He now felt that his prospects were brightening 
every moment. The benighted inhabitants of the 
frigid zone, on whose plains the sun sheds not hi* 
cheering beams for many succeeding months of 
darkness and desolation, are said to climb their 
highest mountains, to watch with eager anxiety, 
and to welcome with grateful rapture, the first 
genial ray which gilds their summits. Such 
was the situation of Worgao ; from the eminence 
of Christian hope, he awaited with lively joy that 
dayspring from on high which was about to dawn 
on liis aspiring soul, to dispel the shades of mortal 
ignorance and misery, and to diffuse a mild radiance 
around his unfettered spirit through ages without 
an end. 

A hemorrhage from the lungs at length attended 
the other symptoms, and generally attacked him 
in the middle of the night, reducing him to the 
greatest state of weakness, and continually threat- 
ening suffocation; by which it was evident he 
would soon be relieved from all his troubles. 
Observing his mother in tears, he said, " My be- 
layed mother, do not grieve, but rejoice ; I am 



58 

going from a world of sin and sorrow to never- 
ceasing joy ; my dear Saviour hath, in answer to 
our united prayers, perfectly tranquillized my 
mind; every cloud is removed. Oh, thou God 
of compassion, great are thy mercies to me ! " 
On the day preceding the night of his departure, 
b«ing the 24th of July, he was very particular in 
an examination of the grounds of his confidence in 
the Divine favour. In the evening he said, " I 
am happy, inexpressibly happy ; and if it should 
please God to call me home to-night, I can now 
go as a poor sinner, relying on my Saviour's righ- 
teousness, and appear in the presence of God 
without fear or dismay." 

In the course of the night, he frequently in- 
quired the hour, and was much employed in pri- 
vate prayer. At one he desired to be supported 
in his bed, saying, " This is about the time." A 
celestial brightness suffused the countenance of the 
dying saint, while, in tranquil confidence, he awaited 
his conflict with the King of Terrors. Within an 
hour afterwards the hemorrhage came on, and he 
exclaimed, " Gracious Saviour, help me — gracious 
Saviour, support me ! " Becoming speechless, he 
expressed the comfort of his mind to his mother 
Jby a significant smile, and shortly after expired 
without a struggle or groan. 

" Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord j even 



59 

ao saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours, 
and their works do follow them." 



Iu person Worgan was tall, and remarkably 
spare in habit; his countenance indicated great 
mildness and steadiness of disposition, but was 
not in other respects the mirror of his mind. A 
certain air of originality, however, sufficiently 
marked that he was not " in the roll of commou 
men." His eyesight failed him early, and he was 
obliged, from his first years of application, to have 
recourse to the assistance of glasses, both in read^ 
ing and writing. To these he was so well ac- 
customed, that before he attained his eleventh 
year, he could make use of them on any occasioa 
with the composure and gravity of a man whom 
age had driven to seek this extraneous aid. 

In Worgan's character, various and opposite 
qualities seem to have been united. That his 
judgment was unusually matured, and his mind 
formed for deep and intimate investigation, ap- 
pears from the nature and intenseness of his 
studies, whilst his poetic effusions prove that he 
was alive to the soft and refined pleasures which 
flow from a lively imagination and delicate sensi- 
bility. 



60 

Yet he steered clear of the negligence of tlie- 
philosopher, and the eccentricities of the man of 
genius, and attended to each of his various pur- 
suits with as much method in his plan of study 
and diligence in his progress, as if it had been the 
only one to which he was devoted. He ex- 
perienced none of those sudden transitions from 
intellectual energy and inspiration, to inability and 
depression, which often mark the towering genius ; 
he shone (if such an expression may be applied to 
one who was unheeded beyond his own narrow 
circle) with the steady light of the regulated planet, 
rather than with the short-lived flash of meteoric 
brilliancy. Naturally fond of retirement, and con- 
firmed in habits of seclusion by his thirst for lite- 
rary knowledge, he nevertheless enjoyed society, 
and was particularly easy and pleasant in conver- 
sation, which a very retentive memory enabled 
him to embellish by apt quotations and interesting 
anecdotes. 

He was reserved, and had an appearance of 
apathy ; yet perhaps there never was a mind more 
truly formed for friendship, or more keenly alive to 
%he tenderest affections of the heart. 

Persevering industry seems to be the most pro- 
minent feature of his character: this, aided by 
she desire of literary fame, enabled him to over- 
come his natural antipathy to the study of Ian- 



61 

guages, and to attain considerable proficiency ia 
Hebrew, as well as the Classics, French, and 
Italian. 

The religions education with which he was fa- 
Toured, and which he appears to have prized 
(though perhaps he was never fully sensible of its 
value till affliction convinced him that this world 
ought to be a scene of preparation for the next), 
gave a bias of piety to his mind which maintained 
its comparative influence through life, even before 
he so felt the yital power of godliness, as to per- 
ceive the emptiness of all human attainments, 
honours, and enjoyments. Hence his standard of 
morality was pure and exalted, and hence arose 
the integrity and simplicity which marked his 
character. 

But the seclusion from the world which was 
the lot of his early life, whilst it tended to pre- 
serve his simplicity and purity, induced him to be 
too much attached to his own views and habits, 
and laid him more open to the pernicious in- 
fluence of adulation and applause which his talents 
excited, and which at one period produced a slight 
effect in his manners and conversation. He was 
•certainly conscious of the superior nature of his 
abilities, and felt a confidence and complacency 
which led him sometimes to set too high a value 
on his own judgment and opinions. Yet to his 



6t 

natural good sense it must be attributed, that his 
mind suffered no greater injury from the suggestions 
of vanity. 

It is also to be feared that he had not learnt the 
necessity of restraining the warmth of his imagina- 
tion ; — his chief failing was an excess of literary 
pride, which might have proved a dangerous rock 
had his life been spared. But from every danger 
into which this ruling passion might have led, and 
from every sorrow to which refined taste and the 
keenest sensibility would have exposed him, he 
has been delivered ; and, released from every care 
and every fear, is now admitted, in the mansions 
of the blessed, to those heavenly joys to which his 
devout soul had long aspired. 



LETTERS, 



LETTERS, 

&c. 



TO MR. 

Mt DEAR FRIEND, 

1 have to apologize to you for not exe- 
cuting a commission with which you entrusted me. 
I have not presented to — - — the copy of Gre- 
gory's Father's Legacy to his Daughters, which you 
enclosed for her in your last packet to me. 

I called upon her a few mornings ago with the 
book in my pocket, intending to deliver it to her., 
She was not at home ; and for the purpose of be- 
guiling my solitude, while sittirj. in her parlour 
awaiting her return, 1 took out the be , and pe- 
rused a few pages in the concluding chapter. But 
I met with so many passages which appeared to 
me of an objectionable nature, that I deemed it 
my duty to return the volume to my pocket, in- 

F 



66 

stead of presenting it to her, as I could not ho- 
nestly put a work into her hands, some of the doc- 
trines of which are of so ruinous a tendency. 

I conceived that you must have been induced to 
purchase it from the celebrity it has acquired, with- 
out giving it a perusal yourself; and, accordingly 
I have returned it to you, that you may dispose of 
it as you think proper on a further consideration 
of its contents. 

You express your surprise at my disapprobation 
of Dr. Gregory's popular work. If you will 
allow me to dispute your opinion, to which, with- 
out flattery, I ever attach the greatest respect, I 
will point out the passages which I think objec- 
tionable, and briefly state the reasons of my disap- 
probation. I feel it a duty incumbent upon me 
to give you my sentiments with sincerity, since, if 
you recommend the volume, your friends will con- 
sider its principles as incontrovertibly just. 

The design of the work is highly commendable, 
and it was doubtless written with the purest mo- 
tives. The youthful part of the fair sex have the 
strongest claim upon the notice of the moral philo- 
sopher, for of all other rational beings they have 
the greatest need of advice. But those admoni- 
tions can produce but little effect upon a glowing 
heart, and a vivid imagination, which dwell upon 
punctilios in the conduct, passing over the grand 



67 

principles of human action. This is the charac- 
teristic defect of Dr. Gregory's work. It is re- 
plete with frivolities, and totally destitute of those 
convincing, irresistible arguments which come with 
energy to the heart. Read his chapter on Re- 
ligion, and tell me if your sense of the importance of 
religion is strengthened by the arguments there ad- 
duced. He shows the expediency of religion ; but 
religion is not a question of expediency-^-it is a 
matter of duty and necessity. We must be Chris- 
tians, not because devotion is a soothing compa- 
nion in our mortal pilgrimage, but because it is in- 
dispensably requisite to rescue us- from everlasting 
perdition. But what is the religion Dr, Gregory 
inculcates ? An attendance on public worship- 
private devotions, and charitable offices. We hear 
nothing of the renewing change in the heart and 
life, which constitutes the soul of religion, and 
which is naturally productive of every private and 
social virtue. One consideration deduced from the 
declarations of unerring Wisdom will ever be ac- 
companied with more powerful influence on the 
mind than a thousand secondary arguments. He 
cautions his daughters to avoid religious conversa- 
tion in mixed companies. In many situations this 
advice may be correct ; but the honest zeal which 
advocates the cause of religion on all occasions, is 
preferable to the bashfulness on religious subjects, 

F 2 



6S 

which has long been so disgraceful a feature of 
fashionable society. 

The succeeding chapters are interspersed with 
valuable observations ; but I regret that a man of 
Dr. Gregory's character should have spoken so 
mildly on modern public amusements, and theatrical 
entertainments. Nor can I agree to his exception 
in favour of tragedy. Do not call me a stern mis- 
anthropist* I arn the strenuous advocate of innocent 
amusement; but the amusements of the stage are not 
innocent, either to those who afford entertainment, 
or to those who are entertained. I am therefore 
at a loss to conceive upon what principle they can 
foe vindicated by any man who entertains the 
smallest regard for the interests of virtue and 
piety. Strange that the most fruitful sources of 
immorality should be so warmly eulogized in a 
work, the proposed object of which is to enforce 
religious principles! 

But my paper and my patience are both ex- 
hausted. I must therefore defer the sequel of my 
remarks to another letter. I trust you will receive 
my animadversions with your usual candour. Be 
assured that they originate from no other motive 
than the most disinterested friendship, and an 
anxious desire to serve the cause of truth. 
Yours, &Cc 

John Dawes Worcan. 



69 



TO THE SAME. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I am happy to find that you are not dis- 
pleased with my so freely controverting your opi- 
nion, and disputing your judgment, m my last 
letter. I shall now, in pursuance of my design, 
and agreeably to your request,, proceed in my 
animadversions on Dr, Gregory's work. Painful 
is the task to oppose the popular opinion, and to 
censure a composition which has long been gene- 
rally admired by a numerous class of readers, 

After calling in question the sentiments which 
Dr. G. has delivered on the subject of religion, 
and inquiring into the expediency of sending the 
fair sex to seek for rational and virtuous recrea- 
tions in mansions that are dedicated to the most 
irrational follies and vices, it remains to notice thg 
advice he has given his daughters, on a subject 
which of all others is the most delicate, which re- 
quires the greatest discernment, and the most in- 
timate knowledge of the human heart. You may 
guess, without referring to the work, that the 
subject to which I allude is the forming con^ 
s 3 



70 

nexions that are to be coeval with life. The sum 
total of all the advice that can be given on this 
tender topic is simply this, — Follow nature ; tread 
in the course which she directs, lighted on your 
way by prudence and delicacy. This is a matter 
of the heart, and consequently the feelings of the 
heart alone are to be consulted. To them alone 
we must appeal ; and when we faithfully obey their 
genuine impulse, we shall not be in much danger 
of falling into error. Yet, pitiful to behold ! Dr. 
Gregory's chapter upon this most momentous 
topic is totally dedicated to frivolous admonitions 
on trifling points of propriety and etiquette. His 
precepts are calculated to render the female who 
shall follow them a moving puppet. Fashion is 
substituted for nature, and a system of affectation 
and deceit is plausibly introduced under the spe- 
cious name of delicacy. But does delicacy require 
us to assume an air of coldness when our hearts 
are warm ? Does it direct us to lead a life of 
perpetual restraint in our intercourse with those 
who are dearest to our hearts ? and does it enjoin 
the female sex for ever to bely their own feelings ? 
Dr. Gregory advises his daughters respecting their 
conduct to the man whom they may prefer to 
others, — -If you love him, let me advise you never 
to discover to him the full extent of your love; no*- 



71 

not although you marry him. This sufficiently 
shows your preference, which is all he is entitled 
to know. — Execrable thought ! The soul must be 
dead to the best sentiments of our nature, that 
could inculcate or could follow such advice. 
What is it that constitutes the felicity of the con- 
jugal condition ? It is the mutual participation 
of every feeling ; it is the magic union of conge- 
nial souls ; it is the reciprocal assurance of unal- 
terable and unlimited affection. But, if Dr. G.'s 
doctrine be just, farewell to domestic happiness, 
farewell to that boundless confidence, without 
which affection is but an imaginary phantom and 
a sounding name. The unhappy mortal who shall 
act upon such unnatural principles will nip the 
roses of love in their bloom, but the thorn will 
remain for ever : for the moment we deviate from 
the path of nature, we enter into tho labyrinth of 
folly, and our wanderings will terminate in the 
bitterest distress. 

There are numerous particulars in Dr. G.'s vo- 
lume which appear to me to betray a singular per- 
version of judgment ; but I will not trouble you' 
with further details. If the preceding animadver- 
sions be just, it will appear that this little volume, 
notwithstanding its popularity, is of a nature not 
simply erroneous, but highly dangerous on the im* 
V 4 



72 

portanfr points of religion, amusements, and the 
highest and tenderest kind of friendship. 

I am, my dear friend, 

Yours very sincerely, 

John Dawes Worgan. 



TO 



I have sent you Hunt's Poems. Hunt, 
when he published, was but sixteen, and his me- 
trical compositions are uncommonly good for his 
years. Originality of thought is not to be ex- 
pected from boys like him and myself ; and if we 
rhyme decently, the critics and yourself must be 
contented. I, however, am rather too prudent to 
challenge the approbation of the critics, since I 
have not yet been fortunate enough to obtain the 
approbation of my own judgment, which you may 
easily conceive is not hypercritical. Yet the pieces 
which I composed two years ago I have lately 
consigned to the flames, and it is very probable 
that my present compositions will meet with y. 
similar doom before two years more are elapsed. 



% 



73 



TO 



The great cause of the prevalence of 
mce, is the facility with which the conscience is 
appeased, and its loudest remonstrances stifled. 
The wishes of the heart of man are naturally prone 
to error ; and if he can find any specious pretext 
for his conduct, he will boldly follow the dictates 
of inclination. It is no difficult matter for the 
children of error to pursuade themselves that their 
follies are virtues, and that their most culpable 
practices are necessary and expedient. We readily 
believe what we wish to be true. Passion lulls 
the internal monitor to sleep, and they dance 
contentedly along the paths of death, persuading 
themselves that they are in the paths of rectitude, 
and perhaps of duty. Conscious of the universal 
frailty of the human heart, and the deceitful charm 
of pleasure, I look upon those who labour under 
jts delusions with sincere pity and compassion. 



7 A, 



TO — 

MY BEAR MADAM, 

The poems and miscellaneous works of 
Mr. Addison I have marked as usual, and re- - 
turned for your perusal : and I would recommend 
you to give them particular attention. They were 
primarily composed in Latin, and the originals 
are prefixed ; but I will be contented if you dili- 
gently read them in the English translation. The 
poem on the Peace of Ryswick is peculiarly ele- 
gant and; animated, Boileau, a celebrated French 
satirist and critic, was accustomed to ridicule 
English poetry, and said that England was too 
stupid a country to produce any thing truly poeti- 
cal, Upon the perusal of this poem of Addison, 
lie was so struck with its beauties, that he im- 
mediately altered his tone, and said that England 
Might produce geniuses with uncommon poetical 
abilities ; at the same time he remarked, that Bri- 
tish poets are men, not children: they cannot 
play, like the French and Italians, but they can 
soar to a height, to which no French or Italian 
poet ever attained. Boileau lived' to see his ob- 
servation most amply verified : for, before his 
decease, Pope, Swift, Young, Thomson, Dryden^ 



75 

Milton, Tiekell, and a multitude of others, illu- 
minated die hemisphere of British poetry, and, 
after having surpassed all the moderns, nearly 
rivalled the glory of the ancients. The Descrip- 
tion of the Resurrection is a masterly production : 
the idea is taken from the Altar-piece of Magdalen 
College, Oxon : an accurate delineation of which 
is prefixed, page 93. Of the other poems, I have 
marked the best. 

The Treatise on the Roman Poets you should 
attentively read, in the original, if you please ; or 
if hdtj in the translation. The other extracts are 
marked. 

The Autumnal Evening's Ride is a most de- 
lightful poem. It was written by a son of Dr. 
Matthews, M.P. for Hereford, who died before 
he attained his twenty-first year. The rhyming 
verses at the end were written by his disconsolate 
father. The descriptions of young Matthews are 
so natural, and such a vein of sympathy pervades 
the whole, and there is united such a glow of 
poetical sentiment and imagery, that I cannot help 
thinking, that if Matthews had lived, he would 
have made one of the greatest poets this age has 
produced. 

The Beauties of Shakespeare are all to be found 
in the Elegant Extracts, and therefore I have de- 
tained the volume. 



76 

Scott's Force of Truth contains an uncom- 
monly interesting narrative. He was progres- 
sively a nominal Churchman, an Arian, a Socinian, 
and a Deist ; at length, however, truth zoas tri- 
umphant. By Divine assistance, unaided by hu- 
man means, he was led to serious reflection. 
Genuine conversion followed ; he was convinced 
of the folly and error of his former sentiments and 
life, and, through the aid of Him who alone can 
order tjie unruly wills and affections of sinful men, 
he continues to this day a zealous champion of the 
Christian Church. May God impart unto us a 
similar blessing! May we (as we read) feel the 
force of truth, and act agreeably to its precepts ! 
The Sermons on Repentance, at the end ; deserve 
your serious notice? 

My Italian proceeds but languidly. This dull 
weather stupifies me. I find it, however, a charni-» 
jtng language, and the better I understand it, the 
more I admire it. I hope you will set me an 
example of diligence, by prosecuting your French ; 
for, as you have no Hebrew interruptions, you 
^iave now no excuse. My Grammar is nearly 
stationary : it will be finished in a nronth, instead 
of a week \ for I am grown unaccountably lazy. 

J. P. % 



77 



TO THE EDITOR OF THE JUVENILE 
REPOSITORY. 

Decemler 20, ISO?. 
MR- EDITOR, 

In your " Review of the Improvements 
in scientific Knowledge, since the Commencement 
of the eighteenth Century" you have justly ob- 
served, that " the literary taste of the present 
day is certainly degenerate ; — that instances of 
solid learning are very rare, zvhile a kind of ge~ 
tieral and superficial knowledge, drawn from 
Encyclopaedias, and other similar publications, 
is very universal.'" Allow me to specify a few 
peculiar absurdities into which men are frequently 
led by the superficial knowledge of which you com- 
plain, and to notice its causes and effects. 

The extensive diffusion of knowledge through 
every circle of society, which has been effected by 
the multitudes of alluring literary and scientific 
publications produced in the last century, has 
completely disarmed learning of the terrors m 
which it was formerly arrayed, and rendered a 
tolerable smattering of the most celebrated authors 
indispensably necessary to a fashionable and polite 
education. The numberless Magazines, Epitomes, 
Selections, Beauties, Reviews. Essays, &c. &c. &c. 



78 

which are perpetual! j issuing from the press, are 
perused with avidity by many who would have 
started aghast at the sight of the folios and quartos 
which frowned in the libraries of our great-grand- 
fathers. The beneficial effects of these pleasing 
publications are easily discernible ; for, to the 
credit of the present age be it spoken, most of 
our beaux can write their amatory epistles without 
Entick lying at their elbow, and half of the modern 
fine ladies can venture to send an invitation-card 
without the assistance of Dyche, Diiworth, or 
the Polite Letter-writer. For the most ignorant 
cannot rest contented unless they can converse and 
write without flagrant errors ; and those who can 
gabble with the greatest volubility, tell the most 
incredible tales, or write with the greatest fluency, 
are sure to be esteemed the most learned men, 
and the most agreeable and entertaining com- 
panions. 

The course of my acquaintance has led me to 
notice one species of learned absurdity which is 
peculiarly ridiculous. This is the inordinate desire 
for quotations, or rather mis-quotations, which 
influences the tongue of every man whose know- 
ledge has reached to Enfield's Speaker. The co- 
pious list of detached sentences prefixed to that 
work, the subjects for themes which are given to 
school-boys or college-boys, and the mottos of 



essays and novels, are sufficient to supply the mind 
with inexhaustible stores, from which the Auretz 
Sententia may he drawn at will, either in epis- 
tolary writings, in works designed for the public^ 
or in conversation. 

I received the other day a fetter from a worthy 
and sensible friend, in which he expatiated on 
afflictions which he had been recently called to 
sustain. " However/' concluded lie, " as Dry den 
has finely remarked, 

To hope for perfect happiness is vain.— ■ 

And I have fully experienced the truth of Dr, 
Young's beautiful observation in his Night 
Thoughts, 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous* 

Wears yet a precious jewel in its head." 

A pleasant volume of poems, entitled Visions 
of Memory, was some time ago published at Ply- 
mouth, the motto to which is 

Forsan et haec ollm meminisse juva£zz?z£. 

Horace* 

I have seen those well-known lines, " Ultima 
semper exvectanda dies, &c." quoted and ascribed 
severally to Horace, Virgil, Lucretius, Statius* 



X 



80 

Lucan, and Ausonius; but seldom ascribed to 
tfieir real author. 1 have heard " Quis talia 
fando/' and the subsequent verses, quoted as be- 
longing to Cicero ; and (which is perhaps the apex 
of absurdity) a person who generally passes for a 
classical scholar and a judicious critic, mentioned 
in conversation the other morning, that energetic 
line of Pindar j, 

Hie murus aheneus esto, &c. I ? 

With respect to works of genius, particularly of 
poetry, an equal pretension to knowledge, and 
almost equal ignorance, prevail. I was told this 
evening by a gentleman, that there was no poem 
which delighted him so much as Pope's Deserted 
Village. " The account of Auburn, and the minute 
descriptions of its scenes," said he, " are beautiful. 
I wonder how Pope could write so feelingly ; for 
sublimity and pathos, however," added he, " there 
is nothing, in my opinion, superior to Goldsmith's 
Elegy in the Country Church-yard, That is 
a fine line of his : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave." 

A thousand similar examples could be adduced : 
but that it is needless. It would only exhaust the 
patience of the reader, and weary the writer. The 
instances already mentioned are, however, sufE* 



81 

cient to evince the invariable accuracy of Pope's 
observation, 

A little learning is a dangerous thing : 
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring. 



TO MR. HENRY BIDDULPH. 

Cheltenham, February 2J, 1808, 
MY DEAR HENRY, 

Most sincerely do I congratulate you 
on the happy alteration which has lately taken 
place in the studies that are destined in future to 
occupy your attention. The pursuits to which 
you are at present devoted, are adapted to what 
I always conceived to be the turn of your mind. 
The pleasures they afford are the most exalted, 
the most permanent, and the most satisfactory : 
and the pure delights attendant en the office of a 
faithful Minister of Jesus Christ, must more than 
counterbalance the advantages of the concern 
which you have wisely relinquished. In the plea- 
sure I feel on this occasion, I candidly confess 
that I am somewhat selfish ; for I am not a little 
rejoiced in the idea, that in all probability we 



may one day become fellow-students, and perhaps 
fellow-ministers. And while we are engaged in 
the acquisition of that knowledge, which is neces- 
sary for our future life, and are secluded in the 
bowers of Academus, I may indulge a reasonable 
hope that we shall be able to renew and to im- 
prove that friendship, which afforded me so much 
pleasure in the noisy mansions at the Fort. In 
childhood we spent many cheerful hours together. 
We knelt together in the temple of the Lord of 
Hosts, and solemnly dedicated ourselves to his 
service \ and I trust we may hereafter be enabled 
to join together in unwearied exertions to fuliil 
the awful engagements into which we jointly en- 
tered, and unite in devoting the noblest faculties 
and purest energies of our souls to the glory of 
Him, from whose unmerited bounty they were 
derived. 

Will you permit me to inquire what authors 
you are at present reading, and what course of 
study you follow ? I envy your secluded situation, 
and the facilities you enjoy. I am obliged ex- 
clusively to depend upon my own resources, which 
are not over-numerous: so that of late I have 
read little, except Mounteney's Demosthenes, and 
Pearce's Longinus, and that sublimer volume which 
teaches us how to live, and how to die. 
v It not unfrequently happens that I fall in witk 



83 

some of our old school-fellows; I lately met 

With ■, who tells me that he goes to a large 

school in the vicinity of . His friends, I 

find, intend to do him up into an honourable parson, 
and he is shortly going to Oxford. 

May I take the liberty of asking, at what period 
you purpose removing to college ? My own re- 
moval is destined (as far as circumstances at pre- 
sent enable me to judge) for October 1809. 
You will probably take the start of me. 

When you have a leisure moment. I need not 
tell you how great a satisfaction a letter from you 
would always afford me. Accept the assurances 
of my sincere regard, and believe me to be, 
Most truly and affectionately yours, 

John Dawes Worgan, 



TO THE REV- T. T. BIDDULPH. 

Cheltenham, February 1308; 
REV. AND DEAR SIR, 

On communicating to Dr. Jenner your 
description of the appearances that followed vac- 
cine inoculation in the arm of your little girl, he 
requested me to inform you, that he is at present 
folly satisfied that the former inoculation was pro- 
g2 



S4 

perly efficacious. In fulfilling this request, I 
eagerly embrace the opportunity of returning my 
grateful acknowledgments for your truly obliging 
letter ; for the sentiments of friendship which it 
breathed, and the excellent advice which it con- 
tained. 

My thoughts, as you know, have been ha- 
rassed in the most distressing manner by a variety 
of concurring evils, particularly by one, of a tender 
nature, which has probed my heart to the bottom. 
I stand in a painful dilemma between doubt and 
hope, between appearance and uncertainty, be- 
tween duty and inclination. My heart, however, 
is inspired with a lively confidence, that the Al- 
mighty Disposer of the affairs of men will con- 
tinue to direct my course. May He, whose will 
I humbly desire to perform, alleviate the pangs of 
grief, and solace my desponding soul with the 
prospect of brighter joys, and of a happiness more 
permanent and sublime! My times are in his 
hand. May He deliver me from those whose 
hearts are set on vanity; and, above all, may He 
deliver my own heart from vanity ! 



The printed poem, which I have taken the 
liberty of enclosing, is to be read before the Royal 
Jennerian Society > on their anniversary festival, 



85 

May 1?> which is Dr. Jenner's birthday, and is 
regularly commemorated by a splendid dinner at 
the Crown and Anchor Tavern ; on which occa- 
sion the Duke of York ordinarily presides. In a 
poem to be presented on such an occasion, before 
such a company, you may naturally conceive that 
I should wish to attain the greatest possible ac- 
curacy. A person who writes upon a contested 
subject should possess the eyes of Argus, to 
detect the slightest inaccuracies, since a chosen 
band are sworn in, to ridicule and revile him. 
This consideration induces me to entreat my 
friends to exercise the greatest critical severity, in 
granting my verses the most thorough scrutiniza- 
tion, and to notice the most trivial errors. And 
if, when you have a leisure moment, you would 
have the great goodness to review them with a 
critical eye, and to favour me with your observa- 
tions upon them, you would confer a particular 
obligation upon me, in addition to the many, 
under w hich your kindness has already laid mei 
And I should feel equally indebted to your son, 

and to Miss , if they would furnish me with 

any animadversions upon them, and freely ex-? 
punge, correct, or amplify. 

I was most truly rejoiced to hear of my friend 
Henry's determination to forsake the pursuits of 
iUfcFcantile life, for studies of a nobler tendency : 
g 3 



S6 

and I must confess that I am somewhat selfish in 
my feelings of joy on the occasion; since I ma)', 
not unreasonably, indulge an expectation, that we 
may one day be united in our academical occupa- 
tions, and renew that friendship which formerly 
afforded me so much pleasure in the busy hours of 
childhood. 

An extraordinary determination of blood to the 
brain, which vehemently affected my eyesight, and 
Somewhat endangered my senses, obliged me to 
desist from my studies for a considerable time, 
and at present I have but partially renewed them. 
Thanks to the mercies of the All-disposing Power, 
the apprehension of danger is now entirely past : 
and, as the tranquillity of my mind is re-esta- 
blished, and my head much relieved by Dr. Jen- 
ifer's advice, I trust, through the Divine blessing, 
I shall shortly be able to return to my ordinary 
employments. And may the restoration of my 
health, and of my mental powers, be accompanied 
by a renewed dedication of the whole to the service 
of Him, from whose bounty they are derived, that 
in prosperity and adversity, hi sickness and health, 
in youth and age, in life and death, the Lord Je- 
hovah may be my strength and my song. I feel 
myself placed in a dangerous path, with allure- 
ments on each side. May his grace be sufficient 
for me, and guide my steps in the " narrow way." 



87 

Pardon me, my dear Sir, for having obtruded 
upon vour time and patience by so long and inco- 
herent a scrawl. Let me once more beg you to 
remember me at the throne of grace, and believe 
me to be 

Your highly obliged and ever faithful servant, 
John Dawes Worgan. 



TO MR. D. G. WAIT. 

Berkeley, November 24, 1S08, 

MY DEAR SIR, 

Your letters of October the 6th, and of 
the 1 8th instant, I have not till this week received, 
by a strange delay, for w Inch I am unable to ac- 
count. I embrace the earliest opportunity of ac- 
knowledging their arrival, and also of informing 
you that Dr. Jenner returned to this place yes- 
terday evening. 

I am not at all surprised to hear of your having 
renounced your Hebrew for Italian studies : and 
the imputation of fickleness, which you bring 
against yourself, is equally applicable to me ; for, 
after I had a little regaled myself with the beau- 
ties of the Italian poets, I must candidly confess 
g 4 



88 

that the Hebrew appeared a dull and cheerlew 
pursuit. As 1 had few opportunities of procure 
ing books, when I began learning Italian, I was 
obliged to confine myself to the use of Baretti's 
.Dictionary, and the Grammar prefixed to it. 
Baretti, taken all in all, is perhaps superior to 
any other writer on the Italian language. In many 
grammatical points, however, I found him so de r 
ficient, that I was induced to have recourse to 
Graglia's Grammar and Exercises, which an- 
swered my utmost wishes, and which (if you have. 
not seen them) you would find particularly useful. 
My Italian library consisted of Pastor Eido, 
Petrarch, and Metastasio. As there was little 
congenial to my fancy in the works of Metastasio, 
or in the Pastor Fido, I confined my attention to 
Petrarch's Sonnets, which I read and re-read with 
increasing admiration, and of some of which it is 
my intention to attempt an English version. Have 
you ever met with a translation of them ? I have 
seen but one, and that is intolerably dull, and 
shamefully perverts the meaning of almost every 
sentence. Should you know of any translation, I 
shall be much obliged to you to acquaint me with 
the names of the author and the publisher. And, 
as my knowledge of the Italian is as yet but very 
partial, and I am anxious to improve it, I should 
esteem it a favour, if, when you have a leisure hour, 



S9 

you would be kind enough to inform me what ele- 
mentary works you use, and if you know of any 
dictionary preferable to Baretti's, and also if you 
have adopted any particular plan of study. 
Believe me to be, dear Sir, 

Most sincerely yours, 

John Dawes Worgan* 



TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 

Cheltenham-, March 2g, 180$. 

REV. AND DEAR SIR, 

As so favourable an opportunity of send- 
ing a letter to Bristol has unexpectedly occurred, 
I cannot resist the temptation of once more adding 
to the daily troubles of your correspondence, by 
returning you my most sincere thanks for the judi- 
cious animadversions with which you honoured the 
Jennerian Address. In the propriety of the major 
part of your friendly remarks, I most fully and 
gratefully coincide. Yet there is one, which 
brings against me an impeachment of high crimes 
and misdemeanours, and of disloyalty to the su- 
preme Potentate ; — an impeachment, which in jus- 
tice tg myself I must take the liberty of contrc- 



90 

verting, and offer an explanation in my own de* 
fence. 

In one part of the poem I have said : 

In vain would Envy, with her venal sword, ' " 
Assail that name by distant climes adord. 

Upon this passage you inquire, " By what other 
word can the zvorship of the Supreme Being be 
expressed %" The tenour of this observation is un- 
doubtedly correct. But this adoration of Dr. 
Jenner is not an hyperbolical phantom of my own 
creation, but an indubitable fact, narrated by Dr. 
Ballhorn and Mr. Stromeyer of Hanover, in 
their writings on Vaccination. On May l?th, Dr. 
Jenner's birthday, a universal holiday is regularly 
proclaimed in many of the towns and villages of 
Germany, particularly in the neighbourhood of 
Hanover. A kind of altar is erected, on which 
Dr. Jenner's bust is placed, adorned with roses 
and garlands. On the front of the altar is in-» 
scribed " Viro de matribus, de pueris, de populis 
bene merito." The trumpets sound. Cows, co- 
vered with wreaths, are led in triumph. The in- 
habitants of the town then advance in procession, 
dressed in uniform, and having Dr. Jenner's head 
impressed upon their buttons. They then dance 
round the altar, and conclude by singing their 
grateful songs to the name of Jenner i. Fat be.it 



9i 

from me to entertain an opinion, that such an ex* 
ample is worthy of our imitation. We have eiv-. 
Joyed our superior religious advantages to little 
purpose, if we are not deeply conscious that our 
thanksgivings for every blessing should be e&cru- 
*ively addressed to the great First Cause of all. 
I simply alluded to the circumstance as an exem- 
plification of the proverb, " A prophet shall re- 
ceive honour, except in his native country ." Go 
to London, and we find Dr. Jenner's character 
depreciated by invidious and malicious individuals. 
Cross the German Sea, and we find him adored. 
Perhaps it may not be amiss to insert a note at 
the conclusion of the poem, containing an ex- 
planation of the custom to which the allusion is 
made. 

_And now, my dear Sir, you must permit me to 
enter my protest against one part of your note, in 
which you do most sadly calumniate one of the 
best and dearest of my friends. You say, " that 
he is no poet, nor the son of a poet" Who was 
that person who some years ago published " Ori- 
ginal Poems" and an Eiegy on Mr. Cadogan's 
death ? Was he a relation of your family, or was 
it merely a coincidence of name ? Sapientes sa- 
pientiam suam ignorant. 

For the good wishes you have kindly expressed 
for my welfare, I feel myself more indebted to 



92 

your partiality than I am capable of acknowledg- 
ing. Their value is particularly enhanced by the 
consideration that they relate to my eternal, as 
well as my temporal happiness. Your exertions 
for my temporal advantage have been crowned 
with success far beyond my expectations or de- 
serts. May your wishes for my spiritual welfare 
be equally accompanied with the blessing of Him, 
who can turn the rock into a standing water, and 
the flint into a fountain of waters ! 

Believe me to be your ever faithful servant, 

J. D. W. 



TO 

December 1808. 

I have just received a letter, which in^ 
forms me of a most melancholy accident which 
has happened to one of the dearest of my friends. 
By a wonderful congeniality of disposition, we 
were united in the firmest friendship ; I loved him 
as a brother. He was riding out a few days ago, 
when his horse started, threw him, and dragged 
him rapidly along, till his skull was fractured. H^ 



95 

•languished in unutterable agonies for eight daysy and 
expired on Sunday morning. Young as I am, I 
am sick of life. I see the friends of my heart se- 
parated from me by the cruel hand of death, or the 
more cruel hand of malice. My joys are rapidly 
departing, my sorrows continually increase. Oh 
life I what art thou but a thorny wilderness ? The 
expectation of a future life is the only consolation 
I can find to support me in the miseries of this. 
Some few years I must linger in this vale of tears; 
but my journey will soon be over. It will not be 
long before my heart shall cease to throb, and my 
pulse to beat. Oh ! while the blood yet circulates 
in my veins, may my affections be set upon another 
and a better world, where long-separated friends 
shall be united to part no more, and shall dwell in 
the fulness of everlasting delight ! Adieu. 

J. D. W. 



TO MR. D. G. WAIT. 

Berkeley, Decemler 14, 180S 6 
DEAR SIR, 

My best thanks are due to you, for your 
two obliging letters, and their very interesting con- 
tents. I was much gratified by the perusal of 



^©ur animated tribute to the memory of poor dear 
Collings. His melancholy doom prompted the 
following effusion, with a sight of which perhaps 
you will not be displeased. 

SONNET, 

OCCASIONED BY THE SUDDEN DEATH OF A 
YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

Child of the dawn, with sparkling dew-drops crown'd, 
I mark'd the Rose her blushing charms unfold $— » 
Ere yonder hills were ting'd with evening gold, 

Nipt by the blast she wither'd on the ground. 

Daughter of Beauty ! transient is thy date. 
But ah ! as transient is the date of Man j 
The hour, that fix'd thy bloom's uncertain span,? 

Consigned my Junius to the grasp of Fate. 

Hons of mortality ! — the tidings hear! 

Blithe as the lark he hail'd the rising day, 
Yet, ere the dew-star veils her lucent ray, 

He lies all breathless on the blood-stain'd bier. 

Alas ! I tremble at the dread decree : 

To-morrow's dawn may sound a knell for me. 

J. D. Wo 

I feel particularly obliged for the information you 
have given me respecting the new translation of 
Petrarch's sonnets, and the- animadversions of the 
Critical Reviewers on his poetic character. But 



95 

I cannot lind words sufficiently strong, to ex- 
press my disgust at the shameless manner in which 
these harpies of literature have insulted the me- 
mory of the sweetest of poets. Every Homer 
will have his Zoilus. But Petrarch's productions 
will continue to command the admiration of the 
world, when the Critical Reviewers are buried in 
everlasting oblivion; and his sweet enchanting 
strains will find an echo in every feeling heart, 
when the herd of pedantic critics are swept into 
the shades of night. I had rather be the author of 
Petrarch's thirty-eighth sonnet, on the death of 
Laura, than of all the dissertations that ever ap- 
peared in the Critical Review. 

I will not trouble you for any further account 
of the observations of these pseudo-critics ; yet if 
you could conveniently favour me with a copy of 
any extracts from the translation of Petrarch, 
which may be inserted in the Review, you would 
in a particular manner oblige me. 

I have a copy of thirty of the sonnets, and three 
of the odes of Petrarch* both in the original and 
with an anonymous English translation. H you 
are inclined to judge of Petrarch for yourself, I 
will with pleasure send you this volume. In some 
of the sonnets- on " Laura living," there are cer- 
tainly many quaint conceits, but these are univer- 
sally to be found in the Italian writers. His 



96 

occasional obscurities are entirely to be attributed 
to the imperfect state of the Italian language at the 
period in which he nourished. But his sonnets 
on " Laura dead " are the most exquisitely beau- 
tiful which any language has produced. There 
Is in them a vein of luxuriant imagery, and a 
glow of pathetic sentiment, which must charm 
every reader of sensibility, and which have de- 
servedly immortalized their author's name. I 
have enclosed two of them in an English dress*; 
when you have read them, I believe you will not 
agree with the Critical Reviewers in their opinion 
of Petrarch's merits. 



Believe me ever most truly yours, 

John Dawes Worgan* 



TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 

Berkeley, December 15, 1808- 
KEV. AND DEAR SIR, 

The two last letters, with which I trou- 
bled you, were occupied in a painful vindication 

* They will be found at the end of the Sonnets in this 
folume, 



97 

of my character and conduct, with reference to 
a well-known subject. As this once-distressing 
affair at present sleeps in peace, I will not call it 
into life again, by unnecessarily provoking a dis- 
cussion of it. But I cannot satisfy my feelings, 
without repeating to you the assurance of the gra- 
titude I feel, for the true friendship and kind li- 
berality, which you manifested towards me during 
the whole of the business. 



Farewell then, for the present, to a subject which 
has been the source of the sweetest pleasures and 
bitterest distresses of my life. I have now another 
concern to occupy my attention, upon which I 
beg leave, my most valued friend, to solicit a re- 
newal of the kindness, which, on many former 
occasions, you have shown me, in favouring me 
with your opinion and advice. I allude to the 
steps, which it will be necessary for me to take, 
respecting my entrance into the University. In a 
few months, the period of three years which X 
engaged to remain with Dr. Jenner, will have ex- 
pired. My wishes towards a clerical life are ever 
the same ; and as, in order to the accomplishment 
of these wishes, it is requisite that I should pass 
through the fiery ordeal of an University education, 

H 



98 

I must prepare myself for the necessary evil. I 
propose to enter the first term after the long vaca- 
tion, and, by taking at once the two terms in 
which my attendance at college is not requisite, I 
shall be able to remain with Dr. Jenner a few 
months longer, if he wishes it. I need not say that 
the acquisition of a scholarship or exhibition 
would be most desirable to me. May I then in- 
quire of you what steps I should take with a view 
to the attaining it ? I will simply mention what 
has occurred to my own mind. About three yearns 
ago, Mr. — — corresponded, respecting me, 
with a friend of — > — college, — who was so kind 
as to promise his exertions in my favour, saying 
at the same time that he could easily procure me 

two exhibitions worth ten pounds each, at ■, 

and that, in consequence of Mr. — -'s recom- 
mendation, he would receive nothing of me for 
tuition, which would be an additional advantage 

of .^9, annually. As Mr. , inconsequence 

of certain occurrences two years ago, expressed 
his determination to give himself no further con- 
cern respecting me, I cannot with propriety apply 
to him on the subject. Yet I have had it m 

contemplation to address a letter to Mr. , 

which I think might perhaps be productive of 
much good, without the possibility of doing harm. 



99 

Yet, as I am unwilling to stir in so delicate a 
matter, without the advice of an experienced 
friend, I have taken the liberty of submitting my 
ideas to your superior judgment. It appears to me 
that what I do should be done with as little delay 
as possible. 

At whatever college I may be induced to enter, 
my life will be a life of privacy. I have been so 
long inured to persecution, and censure, and ri- 
dicule, that I am grown completely callous to 
them, from whatever quarter they may proceed. 
A few congenial friends will constitute all my con- 
nexions ; and, from a consciousness of the value 
of genuine friendship, I particularly wish, in all 
my movements, to bear an eye to the movements 
of your son» Whenever he enters, whether it be 
sooner or later than the time I have proposed 
for myself, I should gladly alter my plans, for 
the sake of being accompanied by him. 

I thank you, my dear Sir, for your friendly- 
caution, transmitted to me by my mother, that 1 
should study prose more than poetry. I meddle 
but little with the muses at present, and seldom 
solicit any favours of them, except it be 

Some stealing melodies that heart might love, 
Or a Irief sonnet to leguile my tears, Bowles, 
h g 



100 

I now principally devote my time to the study 
of Grecian literature. 



I ever am your most obliged faithful servant, 
John Dawes Worgan. 



He may look back upon the days that 
are past, and the recollection may be sweet; but 
the opportunity of improving those days is gone 
for ever; to retrace mem therefore with fond re- 
gret, when they are no longer ours, is unworthy 
of the immortal mind. It is also sweet to direct 
the eye of hope towards futurity, and to feast the 
imagination on scenes that are yet to come. These 
dreams are consoling to the weary mind, and are 
no derogation from the dignity of wisdom. But 
though we beguile our solitude with these visions 
of fancy, let us not dwell upon them as if they 
were realities ; let us not worship the phantoms of 
our own creation ; for before the least of our hopes 
are realized, the heart which they animated may 
cease to throb, the eye which they caused to beam 



101 

with rapture may be closed in the darkness of the 
grave. 

# # # 

J. D. W. 



TO THE REV. T. T. BIDDULPH. 

Berkeley, January Q, 1S0Q, 

REV. AND DEAR SIR, 

Your kind attention to my inquiries on 
University matters, and the information and advice 
with which you have favoured me respecting 
them, demand my most grateful acknowledg- 
ments. 

Your son has most probably acquainted you 
with the intention, which I expressed in my letter 
to him, of entering at ,, .. ■ , and the motives 
by which I was actuated in preferring that society, 
It would therefore be superfluous for me to 
trouble you with any remarks on that subject. 

A gentleman in town, to whom I applied for 

information respecting the exhibitions which are 

in the gift of the London Companies, has pro^ 

mised to furnish me with all necessary intelligence 

H 3 



102 

concerning them. But a question has been started 
by him, which I am unable to answer, and to 
which I should feel highly obliged to you if you 
would have the kindness to afford me a reply. 
Can a student in the University of Oxford enjoy 
the benefits of any exhibition, which does not be- 
long to the college in which he resides ? If this 
question be answered in the negative, can you have 
the goodness to inform me, where any such exhi- 
bitions are attainable ? It is painful that those, 
who enter the University with .the disinterested 
wish of finally promoting the glory of their God, 
by their ministerial labours, should be obliged to 
take so many worldly considerations into the ac- 
count ; but I need not inform you, my dear Sir, 
that these considerations, in my case, are matters 
of importance and necessity. 

The sonnet to which you allude, is entirely at 
the service of the Magazine to which you have 
transmitted it. I have a series of devotional 
sonnets, with the composition of which I beguiled 
my solitary hours, under the pressure of hearty 
rending sorrows. These, when I have time, I 
shall fairly transcribe, and take the liberty of send- 
ing them to you, for the benefit of your opinion 
and correction ; and if you think they will coincide 
with the plan of that publication, I shall rejoice 



JOS 

to see them inserted, happy if I may be deemed 
■worthy to cast my mite into the treasury, and, 
however feebly, to co-operate with the editors, in 
promoting the best of causes. 

Acquainted as I am, my dear Sir, with the 
numberless engagements that engross your time, 
it is with much reluctance that I trouble you with 
the inquiries which this letter contains; but I rely 
on your long-continued friendship to excuse the 
unwilling intrusion. 

I b'g to be most kindly remembered to all your 
family, and remain 

Your obliged faithful servant, 

J. D. WqRGAN. 



TO MR. D. G. WAIT. 

Berkeley, January p, XSOQ. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Your obliging letter, containing the re- 
mainder of Petrarch's sonnets from the Critical Re- 
view, I have just received, and feel most highly 
indebted to you, for the trouble you have kindly 
taken in gratifying my curiosity, The result of an 
H 4 



104 

attentive perusal and consideration of the whole on 
my mind is a conviction that the literary world was 
never disgraced by critics more unjust, or a trans- 
lator more incompetent, than those in question. 
You can form no idea how miserably the sonnets 
of Petrarch are mangled and butchered, in the 
specimens of the translation which you sent me. 
I shall now send you in return a sonnet or two, 
which I translated about a year and a half ago ; 
and I beg you to favour me with your unreserved 
opinion, and your critical animadversions upon 
them. The first is the same of which your letter 
contains a translation ; you may therefore make a 
comparison between their merits. 



SONNET LIX. 



The cheerful hours returning Zephyr leads, 

With flow'rs and fruits, fair partners of his way ; 
The swallow's chirp, the nightingale's lorn lay, 

Are heard, and beauty crowns the spangled meads. 

The fields rejoice ; Heav'n smiles serenely bright 5 
His daughter's charms exulting Jove admires 5 
Air, Ocean, Earth, confess the genial fires s 

And all their tribes in glowing love unite* 



105 

But ah ! to me revolving seasons bring 

Fresh griefs for her, who in my bosom reigns, 
Though borne to yonder skies, for ever dear : 
Of her bereft, the flower-enamel'd spring, 
The plumy songsters, and the virgin trains, 
Bleak, barren wilds and savage forms appear. 

The two sonnets, which I have enclosed, I will 
he obliged to you to return, when you have done 
with them, as I have no other copy. I send them 
as specimens of my translation, with which I in- 
tend to proceed in my summer evening rambles. 
The more severely you criticize them, the more I 
shall feel obliged to you. 

I thank you for your hints respecting the Spa- 
nish language. The object which I have in view 
in all my studies, is to render my life honourable 
10 myself, and useful to others: I would there- 
fore willingly learn any language, in which there 
were any valuable writers, not yet translated into 
our language ; and I should think my time wet! 
occupied in making a version of them. If there- 
fore you will be kind enough to inform me what 
are the untranslated Spanish poems to which you 
allude, I will ask the advice of Mr. Hayley, and 
if he considers those poems as worthy of a trans- 
lation, and likely to repay my labour, I will im- 
mediately commence the study of the Spanish 
language. 



106 

Should you meet with any translation of the 
Sonnets of Petrarch, I need not say how much I 
should be gratified by a little information respect- 
ing them. I shall confine my version to those 
after the death of Laura, as they are infinitely 
superior to the rest. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, 

Ever most faithfully yours, 

J. D. W. 



TO MR. H. BIDDULPH. 

Berkeley, January Q, 180Q, 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

My last letter was so much occupied 
with Oxonian business, that I had no opportunity 
to enter, as I could have wished, into literary 
matters, I therefore resume my pen, for the 
purpose of mentioning to you the nature of my 
studies, of asking your opinion respecting them > 
and of inquiring the nature of your own studies. 
For, as we are to be fellow-collegians, I should 
hope, that our pursuits may be congenial, and 
that we may be united in our various occupations. 



i07 

I have been content, for a considerable time, to 
sacrifice inclination at the shrine of duty ; or, in 
other words, to forsake poetry for Grecian prose. 
I made out a list of Latin and Greek composi- 
tions, which I determined immediately and unin- 
terruptedly to study. This list I have enclosed, 
Those pieces, which I have marked with an as- 
terisk, I have already perused. I should be 
obliged to you, if you would have the kindness to 
add to the list any writers whose works you con- 
sider as deserving of my notice ; or to erase from 
it any works, which you think will not repay my 
labours. I am at present reading Plato's Phaedo, 
which enraptures me by the sublimity of its doc- 
trines, and the sweetness of the diction. By ar- 
guments deduced from natural religion, he so 
eloquently shows the worthlessness of our tene- 
ments of clay, the vanity of the pursuits that oc- 
cupy the children of mortality, and the value and 
eternity of the soul, that I do not wonder at the 
story we are told of a youth, who drowned him- 
self, after the perusal of the Phasdo, that he might 
put its truth to the test, and be freed from the in- 
cumbrances of flesh and blood. I cannot here 
refrain from remarking the vast difference I have 
found between the style of Socrates' Discourses, 
;as transmitted to us by Plato, and those for which 



10S 



we are indebted to Xenophon. I have always 
found the Memorabilia a dull book, and I could 
never bring myself to a relish of its contents, how- 
ever excellent I knew their nature to be. In 
Plato's Dialogues, on the contrary, every thing is 
easy and animated, and there are none of the 
wearisome metaphysical subtleties, which abound 
m the Memorabilia. I make these observations, 
because I know it is common to study the Memo- 
rabilia, as affording an excellent survey of the So- 
cratic philosophy ; and I would recommend Plato's 
Dialogues to you, as containing an equally lu- 
minous account of Socrates' doctrines, expressed 
in a much more entertaining and agreeable 
manner. 

What books do you take up at college ? I have 
thought of Mounteney's Demosthenes and Plato's 
Dialogues. If, however, the examining masters 
do not think proper to accept what they call muti- 
lated works, I would substitute Aristotle's Ethics, 
&r Poetics, and Longinus. 

Do yon study any theological works ? I long 
r»go made a determination to read no writings on 
religious subjects, that proceeded from a mortal 
pen, but to use the sacred volume as its own in- 
terpreter. Jf, however, you can inform me of 
any works on divinity, which are possessed of sin- 



109 

gular merit, I shall willingly deviate from my 
resolution. 

With logic and the mathematics I have not yet 
meddled. It will be time enough to begin them 
when I reach the banks of the Isis. I should be 
obliged to you, nevertheless, to inform me what 
are the standard works on these sciences in use at 
Oxford, that I might purchase them, should they 
fall in my way. 

Could you, from any friend who has lately been 
at Oxford, procure an account of the particulars 
of University expenses, such an account would not 
only be gratifying to my curiosity, but it is of 
importance that I should receive the information 
previously to my entrance at college. 

And now, my dear friend, I have written you a 
long letter, on subjects which we are accustomed 
to regard as of high importance. Yet when I 
read what I have written, and consider it with 
futurity in my view, I almost blush at the asso- 
ciation of ideas, that leads us to attach so much 
moment to pursuits, which a disembodied spirit 
must esteem to be vanity, and the utility of which 
will be vanished when a few fleeting years have 
rolled over our heads. Oh ! for the unction of 
the immortal Spirit, to raise our thoughts from 
these secondary acquirements, to a thirst after 
that eternal wisdom, the value of which will con- 



110 

timie undiminished, when this poor perishable 
globe is sunk in flames ! 

Farewell, my dear Henry. 

Yours, with the most sincere 

And affectionate friendship, 

John Dawes Worgan* 



TO MR. B. G. WAIT. 

Berkeley, February l6, ISOp. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

As you have kindly favoured me with 
permission to trouble you for occasional informa- 
tion on subjects connected with my literary pur- 
suits, I feel assured that you will not think me 
obtrusive, if I once more solicit the assistance you 
may be enabled to afford me from the facilities 
for intelligence you enjoy. 

I have lately been reading the Dialogues of 
Plato, and am rapt in admiration at the grandeur 
of his thoughts, and the sublimity of his doctrineso 
Can you inform me what of his works have been 
translated into English, and what are the reputed 
merits of the different versions ? Also, whether 



Ill 

his doctrines have been discussed by any luminous 
commentator, either in our own or any other lan- 
guage ? In one of the notes on Plato, in the 
Analecta Majora, I find a reference to Stanley's 
History of Philosophy ; do you know any thing 
of this work ? and can you conveniently ascertain 
what parts of Plato have been rendered into Eng- 
lish by Harris, the author of Hermes ; and what 
by Tnylor, the celebrated character, for whose 
benefit the Literary Fund was first established ? 
Perhaps, from the works to which you have access 
in t lie Bristol Library, it may be in yotir power 
to famish me with information on these points* 
It is with much reluctance I make myself so trou- 
blesome to you, but in this outlandish corner o£ 
the globe we have no learning, either ancient or 
modern, foreign or native; and your kind atten- 
tion to my former inquiries induces me to flatter 
myself that you will gratify my curiosity by an 
answer to these, as soon as may suit your con-^ 
veniency. 

I have postponed the furthering my progress in 
Italian, and my intended acquisition of Spanish, 
till I have met with some congenial soul to ac- 
company me in my studies. It is the most heart- 
less of all employments to engage m learning a 
fresh language, without a fellow-student to trot 
by your side. I shall therefore abandon my pro- 



112 

jeqted pursuit of modern continental literature, 
till I have quitted the solitary cells of Berkeley ; 
and in the mean time I shall follow the advice of 
the poet, in studying without interruption the 
" Exemplaria Graca" For it is pleasant to 
cultivate in solitude a language with the principles 
of which you are already acquainted, however 
fatiguing it may be to attempt the cultivation of 
one with which you are totally unacquainted. 
Believe me to be, as ever, 
Dear Sir, 
Your sincerely obliged friend and servant,. 
John Dawes Worgan. 



TO THE SAME. 



Berkeley, March 8, 1809v. 

JIT BEAK SIR,, 

Thank you for your obliging letter of 
the 25th of February, which I have just received, 
and for the satisfactory information . it contained 
on Platonic subjects. The account with which 
you have kindly furnished me, has afforded me all 
the intelligence, I desired. There is only one fur- 



113 

tht r inquiry with which I will trouble you : — Has 
either Sydenham or Taylor translated the Phaedo, 
and has either of them discussed the tenets of 
Socrates, as to the immateriality of the soul ? — 
Have they also offered any remarks on the opi- 
nions which are frequently expressed in the 
Phaedo, as to the nature and duration of the prin- 
ciple of life, which animates the brute creation ? 
These are subjects which have been little noticed, 
yet I cannot but consider them as of no trifling 
interest ; and I have accordingly bestowed On them 
a considerable portion of my thoughts, since they 
first suggested themselves to my mind. I may be 
asked, what benefit such inquiries can produce ; 
and whether they are capable of contributing to 
the present or future happiness of man ? That 
they are directly productive of such advantages, 
1 cannot presume to assert; but how great are the 
advantages which any discussions must afford in- 
directly, whose tendency is to enlarge our ideas 
of the wisdom and goodness of Omnipotence, by 
endeavouring to explain and simplify the organi- 
zation of animated nature 1 And allowing that we 
fail of success in the research, is not a curiosity 
of this description more ennobling, and more wor- 
thy of our powers, than the enthusiastic zeal of 
the antiquary, which leads him to pore over worm- 
eaten records in quest of barren knowledge, that 
i 



114 

he may reconcile apparent anachronisms in an* 
dent fabulists, or adjust the contradictory tenets 
of different mycologists ? All our pursuits of a 
speculative nature may be trifles, and trifles they 
confessedly are, compared with the sacred Wisdom 
that teaches us how to live and how to die ; but 
the pursuits of natural philosophy are surely of all 
others the least trifling ; and if contrasted with the 
frivolities that engross the attention of a majority 
of mankind, how dignified, how sublime do they 
appear ! 

It is not because I conceive any arguments to 
be necessary to form your own opinion on these 
topics, that I enter into such a series of observa- 
tions. My object is simply to elucidate the mo- 
tives, that lead me to trouble you with so many 
inquiries concerning Plato and his divine produc- 
tions. His Phzedo, as well as his Crito, I have 
read, and re-read, and my sentiments most fully 
concur with yours, both as to their subject and 
their style. They are worthy of a disciple of 
Socrates : would that their author had lived ibur 
hundred years later! how glorious a propagator 
might he have been of the doctrines of Christ ! 
But this is a foolish remark, and I am ashamed of 
having written it. The time of our birth, as well 
as the period of our existence, is surely best de- 
termined by Him that made us. 



115 

1 am rejoiced to hear the desire you express of 
seeking foe wisdom iq the academic shades. I 
purpose entering them in September next: and 
how pleasant would it be for us to study Plato 
together ! You aspire to a happy profession, 
which may lead to the highest honours, and render 
you an instrument of the greatest good ; and were I 
to offer my advice, I would point out that profession 
to you from a desire, that, as it has long been de- 
graded by men of ignorance and corruption, its dig- 
nity may at length be restored, by men of talent and 
integrity. In the choice of a pursuit, however, that 
is to be coeval with our active powers, the bent 
of. the inclination is the only guide . that we can 
safely consult. " Naturam sequere," is the sum 
total of all the advice that can be" given, 

The seal with which my last letter was closed, 
was dug up in a church-yard in this neighbour- 
hood. It is composed of unpolished brass, and 
its handle is a thick ring of the same metal. I 
rather conceive that the inscription is Hebrew, 
.since one or two of the letters are common He- 
brew characters. The others may perhaps be 
distorted, or unskilfully engraved. I have sought 
in vain for an interpretation. But are you likely 
to fall in with Mr. Adam Clarke r K'e w 'quid no 
doubt be able to solve the mystery. 

I am sorry to hear that you have been so much 



us 

indisposed, but I hope you are by this time re- 
covered. For my own part, my life is one con- 
tinued series of indispositions. But I must no 
murmur. 

Adieu, my dear Sir. 

Believe me to be, as ever, 
Most sincerely 3 ours, 

John Dawes Worgan 



TO MR. GARDNER, Frampton-upon- Severn. 

Berkeley, February 15, I8O9. 
DEAR SIR, 

I should sooner have acknowledged 
the arrival of your favour of January the 18 th, 
but a series of pressing engagements has occupied 
every moment of my time, and engrossed every idea 
of my mind. 

I thank you for the kind communication of your 
excellent Essay on the Effects of Commerce. I 
regret, for the sake of your fame, that it was not 
published at the time it was first written, since its 
concealment has afforded Mr. ■ an opportu- 

nity of kidnapping the laurels which should have 



117 

graced your brow, and of placing them on hi.s 
own. But I rejoice to hear that you are engaged 
in decorating the same ideas with poetic language. 
The subject opens an ample field for splendid 
descriptions, animated contrasts, and pathetic apo- 
strophes. It has, indeed, been already noticed in 
the " Deserted Village," and in Bowles's Poem 
on St. Michael's Mount; yet it is far from being 
exhausted ; and an expanded poetical dissertation 
upon it would be novel, and highly interesting, 
particularly at the present period, when the merits 
of our commercial system are the topics of uni- 
versal discussion. 

Yet highly as I admire the execution of your 
Essay, and much as I wish to see it arrayed in a 
metrical garb, I must candidly confess that I am 
by no means prepared to subscribe to many of the 
doctrines you inculcate, nor to allow the majority 
of the arguments you employ. A solitary indivi- 
dual, like myself, who wishes to live and die in 
the shades of retirement, can have little induce- 
ment to meddle with the intricate discussions of 
political economy-, especially with those points, 
which have been matters of dispute among the 
wisest of legislators. Yet the result of the brief 
consideration I have bestowed on the consequences 
of commerce, is a conviction that its progress is 
attended -with benefits, that are more than sufri- 
i 3 



118 

cient to counterbalance its acknowledged evils. 
It is only injurious to the weak and foolish, who 
would find abundant resources for injuring them- 
selves by corrupt gratifications without it: to 
those who have wisdom enough to improve its 
effects in a proper manner, it yields the blessings 
of civilization and science. But these are in a 
^reat measure matters of opinion ; and the advo- 
cates of liberal disputation must lament that your 
reasonings have not been made public, however 
they may question the justice of your tenets. 

Have you had time to read the u Recollec- 
tions of a Summer's Day?" And could you 
favour me with them, and with your remarks, in 
the course of a week ? I am anxious to revise 
and complete the composition, and I happen to 
have no other copy. 

I rely on the speedy fulfilment of jour kind 
promise of transmitting to me a packet of your 
poetical pieces, and remain, 

-My dear Sir, 
Your obliged faithful servant, 

, ..*•--. J. D. WoRGAN. 






! , 

4 



" 



J i.9 

TO MR. GARDNER. 

Berkeley, March 8, l$Oy. 
DEAR SIR, 

I return your able Dissertation on the 
Effects of Commerce, with my sincere thanks for 
your kindness in allowing me the perusal of it. 
However essentially my sentiments may differ 
from yours, as to the nature of the consequences 
attendant on commerce, when considered in the 
aggregate, your Essay commands my admiration, 
from the energy with which your arguments are 
delivered, and from the glowing colours in which 
you have delineated the various scenes of change 
and misery which you exhibit to the view. Your 
Essay is a beautiful painting ; whether it gives a 
correct likeness, it is not my province to deter- 
mine. I hope it does not. 

My destiny leads me to London in the course 
of next week, when I shall be anxious to submit 
the " Recollections of a Summer's Day" to 
the inspection of two literary friends, one of whom 
is a female critic. Strange, you will say. for a 
woman to wear the cap of Aristarchus ! I have 
found, however, that when women are possessqil 
i 4 



120 

of talent, they often employ it with more sagacity 
and acuteness than the proud sons of literature art 
in general capable of doing. But though you see 
me so bent on rambling into every subject that 
starts into my brain, I have no time at present to 
rhapsodize, not even in praise of woman ! I must 
therefore return to the subject with which I began, 
and request the favour of you to transmit the said 
Recollections to Mr. W. Davies, who will go 
from Eastington to Berkeley on Friday next. I 
shall expect your remarks with anxiety, since by 
them the fate of my poem will in a great measure 
l>e determined. 

In troubling you so often for my pieces, when 
perhaps you may not have finished the perusal of 
them, I am afraid I may appear importunate. 
But this is a species of importunacy to which all 
must be subject, who, like myself, abhor the 
drudgery of transcription, and consequently possess 
but one copy of their compositions. 

With great regard, 1 ever am, 
Dear Sir, 
Your obliged faithful servant, 

John D. Wokgan; 



121 



TO 

1800. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

It is not from listlessness or inattention 
ihat vour kind letter of the first of March has 
so long remained unacknowledged. During the 
greater part of the time which has elapsed since 
its arrival, the bed has been my dwelling, and the 
contagion of the typhus has been preying on my 
frame. My advances in the state of convalescence 
have been but slow, yet I am now sufficiently re- 
covered to allow me to take the air, and to mingle 
in the gay scenes of spring. 

Thanks be to Providence for its protecting 
care ! It orders all things for the best. Had the 
choice of my fate been allowed me, I surely 
should have recoiled from me idea of enduring 
a pestilential fever. But now that I have en- 
dured k, and that its terrors are past, I review 
my sufferings, not only without regret, but with 
lively satisfaction and gratitude. They gave me 
an enviable season for tranquil thought. They 
lifted my soul above the world, half delivering it 
from the body, and they led me to a train of re- 



122 

flections on the nature of our existence, which 
v.'ere so soothing and so animating to my feelings, 
that I would not exchange the ennobling consola- 
tions they afford, for all the pageants of pleasure 
and glory. 

Alas ! how unequal is the alliance, to which our 
.spirits are ordained to submit, during the period 
of our pilgrimage below ! What avails it that they 
were the semblance of the Deity, created in im- 
mortality and incorruption ? What avails it that 
they were constituted partakers of the divine na- 
ture, and were designed to be partakers of the di- 
vine glory ? They are immured within a melan- 
choly prison, within a tenement of clay, which it 
is their office to animate and inform. The various 
senses, which appertain to the body, they ought 
to guide and control. They are to be the movers and 
conductors of the corporeal machine ; and the ob- 
ject at which their exertions are to be directed, is 
the gloryr of their Creator, and the happiness of their 
companions in life, by which, at the same time, 
their own advancement in glory and happiness 
would be promoted. Such are the purposes for 
which they were created ; but what is the world 
in which they are to move ! It is a wilderness, which 
iniquity, like a torrent, has overdeluged, and through 
which the demons of folly and wickedness diffuse 
their influence, like a poisonous contagion. And 



123 

does the heav<m-born~ soul, on taking a part in 
such a scene, display her sacred origin, by resist- 
ing their seductive powers, and assert her native 
dignity, by trampling under foot the most blan- 
dishing of their allurements ? Let us ask ourselves 
the question, and how mortifying is the reply! 
And can * e heaven-descended soul become the 
slave (A arthly pollution? She can, she is be- 
come •mcIi. Does she not employ the pow T ers of 
the body, in. procuring a few transient and un- 
gratifications? Does she not neglect and 
frustrate the object of her creation, — does she not 
insult her Maker and vilify herself, by yielding to 
the impulse of lawless passions, by suffering. her- 
self to be controlled by earthly objects, instead of 
controlling them, and, by fixing her regard upon 
the trifles of time, forgetful of the eternal state ? 
And does she not thus disqualify herself for the 
heavenly inheritance, and assimilate herself to all 
that is evil and wretched? Reason and expe- 
rience, as well as Revelation, reply in the affirma- 
tive to these painful inquiries. And how shall 
the horrors of this fatal condition be removed? 
Reason and experience are here unable to reply. 
To Revelation alone, we can look with confi- 
dence ; and how cheering is the answer it affords ! 
Does the spirit bewail the evils into which she 
has plunged r Does she resolve to forsake them, 



124 

and to live as she ought ? An infinite atonement 
has been made by the Deity himself, who was 
pleased to lay down his glories, and reside in a 
corporeal habitation like her own, thus to endure, 
in the fulness of his eternal compassion, the re- 
wards that would have devolved upon the head of 
offending man. Through a reliance on the mercy 
of this sacred Redeemer, she may be reconciled 
to Heaven, and by his divine assistance she may be 
released from the corrupt propensities which ad- 
here to her nature, and may regain her long-lost 
purity. Thus is a renovating change produced. 
The soul is re-animated, and her faculties are once 
more dedicated to the purposes for which they 
were bestowed. The tumults of impurity are 
succeeded by the sweet calm of holiness. She 
learns to regard surrounding objects in their proper 
light. She sees that the world was merely in- 
tended for a momentary use and existence. Fare- 
well then to the insane dependance she formerly 
reposed upon it ! She sees that her body, which 
had formerly been the centre of all her hopes and 
fears, is no part of herself, but merely a mansion 
m which she is to move for an appointed time, of 
the different parts of which, indeed, she is to 
dispose, while she inhabits it, to the noblest ends, 
but which she shall shortly relinquish. Farewell 
then to her former restlessness and anxiety for it* 



125 

welfare! It is unworthy of an immortal being- to 
indulge in painful solicitude for the fate of a 
perishable frame. She looks on earth, as a sphere 
through which she is to pass, — on life, as the pe- 
riod allowed for her journey, and on death, as the 
summons which shall call her to the abode of 
Him, whom to please is the subject of her im- 
passioned hope, whom to offend is the subject o f 
her anxious fear. As to the body, it is a galling 
impediment to her hi the exercise of jier energies ; 
but she labours to live distinctly from it, and par- 
ticipates but little in its concerns. Let it be 
stretched on the couch of sickness ; she flourishes 
in undiminished vigour. Let it be racked with 
pain ; she smiles in the fulness of divine tran- 
quillity. Let it be loaded with fetters, and cast 
into the dark recesses of a dungeon ; she spurns 
the manacle, and rises with her native strength 
into the regions of imagination. — Earth and hea- 
ven are open to her gaze ; she glides beyond the 
stars, and penetrates into the unseen abysses of the 
universe. Still in this life she is frail ; alas, how 
frail! She fails in attaining the excellence of 
purity which she desires, and her firmness is too 
often overcome by the tempting follies she detests. 
But she is supported by that Eternal Power, whose 
succour shall never be supplicated in vain ; and 
the continual adversities, which chequer the pro- 



me 

gress of life, confirm her in her contempt of earth, 
and her aspirations after a better country. And 
her frailties shall soon be over. She advances in 
■wisdom, in perfection, and in happiness; she is 
more and more assimilated to the image of her 
God; and when she shall have completed the 
purposes for which she was sent into the body, she 
shall be emancipated from its bondage : she shall 
mount upon the wings of the wind, and ascend 
triumphantly into the presence of her Father, to 
repose for ever in his bosom, looking with pity 
and with scorn on her former incumbrances of 
flesh and blood, and viewing the earth from afar 
as a rolling atom. 

But I must restrain my careering fancy. If I 
have grown more formal than the laws of corre- 
spondence allow, and if what I have written is 
more like a sermon than a letter, you must re- 
member that I am just rescued from the verge of 
the grave, and you will not wonder that these ex- 
alted subjects are uppermost in my mind, and 
that I wish them to be uppermost in the minds of 
those I Jove. How contemptible do the frivolous 
pursuits of life appear, when compared with those 
which divine contemplation holds forward to the 
view ! 

Adieu, my dear friend : we cannot fully under- 
stand these glorious subjects, while we are in this 






corner of the universe ; but we know enough of 
thtm at present to sublime our thoughts, and re- 
generate our desires, and they shall be amply de- 
veloped to our understandings, in a happier land, 
when our spirits are in a disembodied state. — 
Adieu ! adieu ! 

Ever most truly and affectionately yours, 
John Dawes Worgax. 



POEMS. 



POEMS. 



RHAPSODY, 

PARTLY IN IMITATION OF TIBULLUS* 

Say, for what peerless boon, what glitt'ring prize, 
Should ardent vows with grateful incense rise ? 
Not that a dome with lofty splendour crown'd 
May spread my worthless glory wide around : 
Not that my land a thousand plows may till, 
And menial tribes await my sov'reign will ; 
While wavy crops the laughing meads adorn, 
By Plenty scatter'd from her golden horn ' 
Not that my chests may groan with brilliant ore ; 
And Fortune's gifts enhance my frugal store, 
And Glory decorate my lowly name 
Wilh envied garlands of immortal fame ; 
k2 



132 

But that my soul, by sacred Wisdom led, 
May rest secure beneath some low-built shed, 
And in thy love, Almighty Father ! blest, 
Hail the sweet transports of eternal rest. 
When vig'rous youth my rising passion warms, 
And earthly scenes display their fading charms, 
In this frail heart unchanging Monarch reign, 
And o'er my will thy rightful sway sustain ; 
My erring fancy and its pow'rs control, 
And bind with cords of love my waud'ring soul. 
In manhood's prime, and each succeeding stage, 
Thou shalt alone my first, best thoughts engage 5 
Tost on the busy world's tempestuous sea, 
My steadfast anchor shall be fix'-d on Thee ; 
And when decaying age shall damp my joy, 
And the weak frame of human bliss destroy, 
Let my glad breast with humble faith resign, 
Trust in thy love, and on thy arm recline. 
Then let my soul (thy glories in her view) 
From earth's drear wilderness her flight pursue, 
Eest at thy feet, amid the prostrate host, 
Who sound thy praises through th' empyreal coast; 
And there the counsels of thy mercy trace, 
Sav'd by the riches of thy pard'ning grace. 
Vain are the ponderous loads of sordid gold, 
Which the fond throng with eager joy behold. 
1 ho' plenteous harvests crown the yellow plain; 
And splendid affluence spread her golden reign. 



133 

Though many a dome, on Parian columns raisU, 
Shine o'er the vale, with pageant art emblaz'd ; 
Though grateful vistas meet the wond'ring eyes, 
And lovely scenes in bright succession rise- 
Vain are the joys their various charms impart, 
Unless thy presence cheer my pensive heart. 

Though flowing vests adorn the glitt'ring side, 
" Twice dipt in poison of Sidonian pride," 
Vain are the honours of the Iberian coast, 
Vain are the beauties Tyrian purples boast : 
May that transcendent robe my soul array, 
Dy'd in the blood that wash'd my sins away ! 
Clad in this glorious dress, from terror free, 
My longing eyes th' approaching Judge shall see. 

Ye vain pursuits and transitory joys, 
Which erring crowds with senseless ardour prize \ 
Ye mystic rolls of philosophic lore, 
Which learning's train with studious toil explore, 
Ye blind delights, that charm th' infatuate great; 
The lures of pleasure, and the pomp ©f state ; 
Say, can ye grant your vot'ries firm repose, 
And shield from treach'rous friends and angry foes ? 
Can all your boasted energies relieve 
Afflictive care, and healing comfort give ? 
To Fortune's fickle pow'r superior raise, 
And guide their wandering feet thro' flow'ry ways ? 
And when grim Death shall point his fatal dart, 
And pluck from earthly joys th' unwilling heart, 
k3 



134 

Say, can ye shed around a sacred ray, 
And heav'nly comfort to the breast convey £ 
Vain is each phantom on this earthly ball, 
And in eternal night its brightest glories fall, 
O let me rest in humble life secure, 
Spurn the false world, and heav'nly bliss ensure [ 
Far from terrestrial joys and ravening strife, 
Which fall, loud thuud'ring, and embitter life, 
Let me with peaceful competence reside, 
And view secure the wreck of tow'ring pride ; 
Let sweet Content her lasting joys afford, 
And humble Plenty crown my frugal board : 
Then shall mine eyes with pitying scorn survey 
The fond delusive meteors of a day, 
Which from the mists of erring Fancy rise, 
And, vainly follow'd, mock the gazing eyes. 
Then shall my thought with sacred fervour soa? 
On seraph wing, and gain th' ethereal shore ; 
With Salem's beauty fir'd, the world despise, 
And quit the rolling earth, to grasp the skies. 
Redeeming Lord 1 thy quickening pow'r exert, 

And to thy law my rebel will convert. 

Claim for thyself alone my worthless heart ; 

Correct, refine, and purge its every part. 

Break with strong hand th' oppressor's galling cham. 

And in my breast confirm thy blissful reign. 



13$ 



EETIREMENT 

AN ODE. 
WRITTEN IN JULY 1806. 

I. 1. 

Yl verdant glades and echoing groves ; 

Ye streams, that lave th' enamel'd plainly 
Where oft uY enamour'd Fancy roves, 

And Virtue guides her chosen train ! 
While Pleasure flutters on the wing, 
Your charms my rustic pipe shall sing ; 

And while th' advent'rous numbers flow, 
Your tuneful strain, ye feather'd quires, unite * 

In softer gales, ye Zephyrs, blow ; 
Ye blooming flow'rs, the ravish'd sense delight 



High in his flaming chariot borne, 
Bright Phoebus darts a golden ray ; 

The lark salutes the blushing morn, 
And music breaks from every spray c 

k4 



Creation pours a general strain 

To Him, whose bounty cheers the plain : 

Secure the fleecy wand'rers sport, 
And crop the meadow's dew-besprinkled bloom i- 

While Flora spreads her ample court, 
And mingled sweets the spicy gale perfume* 



i. 3. 

Now let us pierce the grove's embow'ring shade, 

And gain th' aspiring mountain's arduous brow? 
Gay dew-drops glitter on each spangled glade, 

And fresh en'd verdure smiles on ev'ry bough. 
And see, what lovely prospects rise ! 

With waving corn the vallies teem, 

Which, gilded by the solar beam, 
Like seas of gold enchant my eyes. 
Here lofty Mendip lifts his tow'ring head, 

And the twin brooks in friendly channels flow % 
Majestic oaks their rev'rend honours spread, 

And tender saplings with soft foliage blow ; 
There hoarse Sabrina rolls her sainted tide, 
And purling streams in smooth meanders glide, 



137 



ii. l. 



While the warm eye with rapture -strays 

Through wide Creation's rich domain, 
Or rambles in her woodland ways, 

Or in her proud majestic reign, 
All mortal accents are too faint 
The magic of her charms to paint. 

Come then, my Muse, direct thy way 
Where gentler charms and milder beauties dwells 

There thou mayst tune thy wandering lay. 
The praise of Piety and Worth to tell. 



II. 2. 

Deep in the broider'd vale's recess, 

Evander's smiling mansion lies ; 
Gay rural sweets the moments bless, 

With Peace, immortal Virtue's prize. 
Remote from Earth's tumultuous powY, 
Devotion hails the lonesome bow'r : 

Fair Concord lifts her laurel 'd mien ; 
Domestic joys enlivening bliss afford ; 

And Love,, to crown the joyful scene, 
Spreads a fair offspring round the friendly board. 



1$S 



SI. 3r4 



Ko venal guardian damps th' unwilling heart* 
With sordid precepts and monastic lore ; 

The strenuous parent heav'nly truth imparts-. 
And various Wisdom opes her ample sto#e» 

The busy task Attention plies, 
The list'ning children star«J around 
With gifts and genial praises crownM, 
While transport glistens in their eyes. 

Now they review Creation's painted scenes ; 
Now Wisdom's page inspires the falling 
tongue, 

Grammatic lore assiduous labour gleans, 
And infant voices lisp the sacred song. 

Delightful scene ! let wondering ages find 

" The parent, tutor, friend, and guardian join/d* 

i-ii. I. 

Thrice happy seat of pure delight I 
These are the joys Retirement knows* J 

Increasing pleasures charm the sight, 
With downy peace and glad repose* 

Ye sons of wealth ! your heaps enjoy, 

Till sordid stores the bosom cloy : 



139 

Ye sons of grandeur ! strain each nerve, 
Uncertain praise and giddy pow'r to gain : — 

Let me a nobler bliss preserve, 
And tread with humble feet the peaceful plain* 



Be mine to rise at earliest dawn, 

And nature's bounteous King adore ; 
And wand'ring o'er the purple lawn, 

To cull the meadow's balmy store. 
Almighty Grace ! with holy fire 
My bosom warm, my heart inspire: 

Let me, from earthly cares releas'd, 
With humble ardour pour the suppliant voice ;• 

On hallow'd joys for ever feast, 
And fix on heav'n alone my steadfast choice, 

in. 3. 

Celestial Dove } thy sacred succour bring ; 

Teach me to wake the sweetly sounding chord^ 
In pow'rful notes redeeming love to sing, 

And Jesus' dying mercy to record. 
My steps to Calvary's summit guide ; 

Thence may reviving beams of light 

Dispel the dreary shades of night, 
And show how vain is earthly pride. 



I4& 

Let Faith and Hope their healing balm bestow • 

Let heav'nly joys my drooping heart regale : 
Thus let my life in placid currents flow, 

With silent course, through sweet Retirement's 
vale, 
Till by degrees the less'nmg shores retreat, 
<&nd circling waves the boundless oceaa meet* 



TO PEACE, 

Avadkt, detested fiend of war! 

Hence with thy direful train : 
Sheath, sheath thy sword, rush to thine iron car, 
Drawn by red dragons o'er th' embattled plain, 

And seek the realms of night again ! 

Long has thy sword been drunk with blood; 
Long has Despair impetuous stalk'd around, 
Thick down the mountains rolFd the crimson flood, 
And shrieks of woe the trembling shores resound. 
With heart of steel, and eyes of fire, 
Swift to the Stygian depths retire : 



141 

Pale If ate, that licks a brother^ gore, 
With Envy, Pride, Ambition, Lust, 
The panders of thy rage no more, 
Hurl'd from their thrones shall bite the dust. 
Ye brazen gates ! your massy folds upheave^ 
And all the bloody band receive, 
Bound in an adamantine chain, 
And whelm'd in fiery gulfs, for ever to remain. 
But come from Heav'n, immortal Peace, 
And bid discordant Fury cease. 
Celestial Pow'r ! whose hallow'd swaj 
The blest empyreal plains obey ; 
Haste, with gentle radiance crown'd, 
Whose rays shall spread the earth around ; 
Swift from thy golden throne arise, 
And cheer Britannia's longing eyes : 
In all thy soft undazzling pride 
Through parting clouds triumphant ride : 
Then let thy flame- wing'd coursers bear 
Thine empty car through yielding air. 
But thou, delightf ul Goddess! deign 
On earth to fix thy lasting reign ; 
Gay tranquil joys to man restore, 
And spread thy sway from shore to shore, 
\\ here'er thy glad'ning smiles descend, 
A lovely train thy steps attend : 
Rich Commerce plows the watry main, 
Fir'd by the charms of useful gain : 



142 

Crowned with bright wreaths, the tuneful Nine 
With votive la\s adorn thy shrine ; 
Fair Science sheds her cheering light, 
And dissipates the mental night ; 
Portentous Ignorance retires, 
And Art her chosen band inspires. 
Full-handed Plenty treads the lawn, 
With roseate Health, at earliest dawn ; 
And, dancing o'er th r enamel'd mead, 
Their lovely quire the Graces lead ; 
While fair Civility displays 
Her friendly smiles and fostering rays. 
Swift may the circling moments fly, 
Till man thy beaming car descry. 
Thrice happy day, thrice welcome hour, 
When earth shall feel thy tranquil pow'r j 
Then shall the thunders cease to roll r 
Whose peals affright the turbid pole : 
No- more shall eager warriors rise, 
Or the shrill clarion rend the skies ; 
No more shall martial tempests roar, 
Or deserts reek in human gore. 
Where late the sanguine torrent roll'd, 
The swains their waving crops behold. 
The bending falchion cleaves the land^ 
Obedient to thy blest command ; 
The bloody sword and gory spear 
Tcuch'4 by thy hand a scythe appear ; - 



143 

Or in the rustic mansion lie, 
The sport of tender infancy. 
While many a falt'ring tongue repeats 
His warlike grandsire's wondrous feats. 
Wide o'er the rampart's mould'ring height^ 
Sweet verdure glads th' admiring sight, 
And round the castle's shatter'd towers 
Fair ivy twines her op'ning flowers. 

No more shall fainting nations groan 2 
But thy celestial sceptre own. 
The smiling meads shall laugh and sing,, 
Rich with the rlow'ry gifts of spring ; 
And warbling quires on every spray 
Tune to thy praise the joyous lay. 
Thy glittering temple shall arise, 
And crown'd with beauty meet the skies. 
There, with due homage, man shall bow 5 
And carol forth the grateful vow ; 
And many an artless shrine erect, 
With fruits and votive garlands deck'd. 
No blood shall stain die sacred ground^ 
No victim feel the deadly wound ; 
But vernal flow'rs of fairest hue, 
And roses bath'd in sparkling dew, 
With golden sheaves and purple wiue, 
By swains preferr'd, shall grace thy shrine. 

When, in his golden chariot borne, 
^Bright Phoebus gives the rosy morn ; 
5 



144 

Or when, in milder beauty dresf, 
He deeks with gold the glowing west, 
As oft the shepherd winds his way 
Through meads with yellow harvests gay, 
His oaten reed, with tuneful song, 
The sweetly murmuring streams along, 
To list'ning forests shall proclaim, 
O lovely Peace ! thy darling name. 

Fair Ceres' gifts, that gild the vale, 
The placid eve, the balmy gale, 
The purling rill, the friendly shade, 
The meads with blooming flow ? rs array *d, 
The rapturous music of the grove, 
Where sportive tribes securely rove, 
Shall sound thy praise in glowing strains, 
Whose hand with plenty robes the plains. 
Secures to man the blessings given, 
And makes on earth a little heaven* 



RECOLLECTIONS 



A SUMMER'S DAY. 



RECOLLECTIONS 



A SUMMER'S DAY. 



Wide o'er the earth, in sable clouds array 'd, 
Overshadowing Night extends her blackest shade ■ 
No cheerful moon displays her smiling mien, 
No glimm'ring star illumes the dreary scene, 
But drifting snows the lab'ring earth assail, 
And angry tempests desolate the vale, 
While Boreas thunders with resistless force, 
And stops with icy hand the streamlet's course, 
Ah ! where is now Creation's blooming pride ■ 
Where the gay scenes to vernal hours allied ? 
No more the wild-bee murmurs o'er the lawn, 
No more the lark salutes the rosy dawn ; 
But while the groves by chilling blasts are torn, 
And the bleak plains their rifled graces mourn, 
L % 



148 

What shall the Muse's languid breast inspire, 
Or bid her fingers wake the dormant lyre ? 
Oft have I sat beneath the hawthorn bower, 
While social converse cheer'd the livelong hour, 
Caught the wild warbiings of the wood-lark's throat, 
Or the lorn nightingale's enamour'd note ; 
Where o'er each bank the blushing violets bloom'd, 
And op'ning flow'rs the breezy morn perfum'd, 
Led by retirement's hand, with glowing thought, 
The tufted vale and echoing grove I sought ; 
And, far secluded from the busy throng, 
Wak'd on my jocund pipe the rural song, 
And nurs'd the visions of romantic ease, 
Sooth'd by the murm'ring sound of branching trees. 
But time has laid their verdant honours low, 
And not a leaf adorns the whiteu'd bough,, 
And not a warbler glads the cheerless day >5 
But Desolation sweeps her headlong way. 
Yet though no more enchanting scenes invite, 
Nor vernal charms the ravish'd sense delight, 
Still may the Muse inspiring objects find, 
And Nature's wealth enrich the Poet's mind. 
iEthereal pinions memory's pow'r supplies, 
And bids the soul with eager transport rise ; 
Her magic hand a faithful glass displays, 
To renovate the scenes of happier days ; 
Again the flow'rs of rich-rob'd Summer blow, 
Again the fruits of purple Autumn glow ; 



14<> 

The musing heart, with oft-reverted glance, 
Sees former joys in cheerful throngs advance. 
Let others woo Diversion's treach'rous aid, 
The reeling dance, the courtly masquerade, — 
Urge the dull round of fashionable woe, — 
Groan as they smile, and sicken as they glow;— 
For them let Comus pour his venal strain, 
With amorous nonsense, or the jest profane ; 
For them let Drury's crowded scenes appear, 
Rouse the false laugh, and prompt th' affected tear, 
And midnight sports their fleeting years consume, 
Till Death drives headlong to the yawning tomb : 
Be mine the pleasures of the rural board, 
Which sacred Science and Retreat afford. 
Sweet Peace, an exile from the giddy throng, 
Lifts her fair head Retirement's haunts among. 
Imparts a blessing to the vain denied, 
And lasting joys unknown to pompous pride.. 
O come, bright fugitive ! with blest control 
Guide my rapt fancy, and exalt my soul ; 
O'er my glad heart thy genial warmth diffuse, 
And aid with vivid pow'rs thy daughter muse : 
Let memory's pow'r retrace the vernal scenes, 
Unfading landscapes and perennial greens, 
With fancied bliss amuse the vagrant thought, 
And rove in fairy bow'rs, with deathless beauty 
fraught. 

T rt 
L v> 



150 

See, at her voice a new creation springs, 
Exulting Fancy claps her eagle wings : 
Swift o'er the clouds, by sportive zephyrs drawis, 
Rob'd in the radiance of the purple dawn, 
In magic hues, resplendent from afar, 
The light-wing'd Goddess rolls her beamy car. 
By her sustain'd, my soul the tempest braves, 
Mounts o'er the tow'ring hills and foaming waves, 
And glides, fair Millwood, to thy rural sheds, 
Thy grove revisits, and thy vale retreads. 
These, when effulgent Summer's liberal hand 
Flung her gay flowrets o'er the laughing land, 
To my rapt gaze their blooming charms display 'd, 
And woo'd me to their dear sequester'd shade. 
Now, when no more the scenes in prospect roll, 
Their pictur'd views enchant the pensive soul, 
And the fair visions of ideal joy, 
Deck'd with fantastic grace, my captive thoughts 
employ. 

Fair was the rising dawn : o'er every glade 
Fresh verdure smil'd, and balmy zephyrs play'd : 
When, ere the dewdrop left the spangled thorn, 
Ere Titan's rays ilJum'd the dappled mom, 
With Philidore I trac'd the dewy mead, 
Where Nature's op'ning charms her votaries lead, 
And stray'd, Avonia, by thy wand'ring tide, 
Where tow'ring Vincent bares her rocky^side, 



151 

And Bristol's turrets, gilt by Phosphor's beam, 
Inverted glimmer in the tranquil stream. 
Primeval Peace her brooding wing unfurl'd, 
And not a sound annoy'd th' unconscious world ; 
Save when, resounding from the dusky tower, 
The slow-voic'd clock proclaim'd the passing hour* 

Now when the mounting sun with orient ray 
Glow'd o'er the hills, and gave the cheerful day, 
Round the broad strand a ling'ring look we threw, 
Thy mingled scenes, O Industry, to view, 
And gaz'd admiring on the wealth-crown'd mart, 
Blest with each gift of Nature and of Art, — > 
The balmy produce of Sabaean fields, 
And the rich stores that either India yields,—* 
And oh ! how grateful to the judging mind, 
By Virtue's heav'nly sympathies refin'd, 
To view that mart, whose crowded vessels bore 
The blood-stain'd offspring of Caffraria's shore, 
By Slavery's guilty load no more debas'd, 
But with the wealth of liberal Commerce grac'd ! 
No more the tortur'd captive's piercing cries 
Chill the 'pali'd heart, and reach the frowning skies; 
But cheerful seamen wake the jovial strain, 
To celebrate the glories of the main. — 

Now the proud dome, by pious Canning rear'd, 
With awful grandeur in the skies appear'd ; 
By virtuous toil in peerless beauty wrought, 
Where many a sage religious dictate ? s taught, 
L 4 



152: 

And here, in haunts to Sol's bright rays unknown, 
Wh^re Superstition rear'd her ebon throne, 
Our pitying eyes survey'd the lonely cell, 
Where Chatterton awoke the tuneful shell, 
And bade his lyre the deep-ton d music roll 
With pleasing raptures o'er th' enamour'd soul. 
Sweet Nature's child ! accept the tribute paid 
By food affection to thy honoured shade : 
Though pallid want thy mortal hours distrest, 
Thy genius wither'd, and thy fires deprest ; 
Still round thy grave unfading flow'rs shall bloom ? 
And weeping Muses ever mourn thy doom, 
Bards yet unborn shall drop the kindred tear, 
Embalm thy memory, and thy name revere. 

Now, from the city's gloomy scenes withdrawn, . 
We trod th* enamel'd mead and verdant lawn, 
Where laughing swains, witli hearts for ever blithe, 
Plied with assiduous hand the glitt'ring scythe, 
And at each stroke the fairy webs overthrew, 
From blade to blade prolonged, and gemm'd with 

dew. 
Now o'er aspiring hills we bent our way, 
Pausing to catch the blackbird's mellow lay, 
To pluck the wild-flow'r from its dewy cell, 
Or count the herds that whiten'd o'er the dell. 
Where'er we gaz'd enchanting prospects smil'd, 
And social converse the long way beguiTd, 



A 



1.53 

Till from the cloud-topt mountain's arduous height, 
Th\ scenes, sweet Millwood, met the ravishM sight. 

Deep in a vale the decent mansion rose, 
Where chistring elms the cultur'd plain enclose ; 
Full many a hamlet's lowly cots appear'd, 
And loftier domes around their summits rear d : 
Here iow-Iand meads displayed their chequer 'd 

green, 
There Mendip's oak-crown'd head eonnV d th$ 

scene ; 
Where heav'n-taught More in active virtue trod,— * 
Friend of her race, of wisdom, and of God ; 
And gen'rous Whalley, rapt in rural ease, 
His mansion sheltered in embow'fing trees,-— 
The lonesome woods with artful beauty grac'd, 
And crown'd with waving corn the brambied waste* 
Yet nought so dear the wand'ring eye survey T d, 
As thee, iov'd Millwood, and. thy sylvan shade, 
Where tasteful Art and bounteous Nature meet, 
And heav'nly Peace sustains her blissful seat. 
As the light skiff, impelled by faVriiig tidos, 
On Avon's placid wave serenely glides ; 
So did my days in silent lapse succeed, 
Crown'd with each pleasure, from each sorrow 

freed, 
When, cheerful Millwood, in thy shades embower'd, 
High o'er the scenes of earth my fancy tower'd : 



154 

No more by visionary gleams misled, 

To dazzling pride and syren pleasure dead, 

My chasten'd soul renounc'd the dreams of youtn^ 

And sought her pleasures in the arms of Truth 5 

Celestial Peace her lasting joys infus'd, 

And Nature's charms my sportive hours amus'd* 

Oft would I rise, ere yet the morning beam 
Chequer'd with roseate tints the twilight gleam, 
Court the soft breezes on the flr-topt hill, 
Or trace the windings of the devious rill. 
The voice of joy is heard in every seat,— 
The heifer's low, — -the lambkin's tender bleat,*— * 
And plumy choristers from every tree 
Pour the rich strains of nature's minstrelsy. 
And while thy works a gen'rai anthem raise, 
O Father of all worlds ! to sound thy praise, 
Shall man alone th' adoring song deny, 
And lift to Heav n the vain-presumptuous eye ? 
No : at Religion's shrine, with filial joy, 
Oft would my soul her noblest pow'rs employ ; — * 
Oft would Devotion, with ecstatic lay, 
By all but Heav'n unheard, her homage pay, — 
And bid the joys of blinded man farewell, 
On Heav'n's anticipated bliss to dwell, 
She points each work in Nature's mystic plan- 
To the unheeding heart of haughty man ; 
And as she gazes with renew'd delight 
On all the wonders of creating might, 



155 

She wakes to artless notes the trembling string, 
Loud in His praise, who gave the pow'r to sing. 
Now when the sun with brighter radiance 
glovv'd, 
To Millwood's dome my feet retrae'd their road, 
Whose virtuous master bade his rural clan, 
Ere the brisk hinds their daily toil began, 
With duteous love th' Almighty King adore, 
Resound his goodness, and his grace implore. 
Ye senseless infidels, with jeering pride, 
The suppliant voice of humble faith deride,— 
Your conscience lull, with mad'ning hopes elate, 
And wander blindfold on the verge of fate,— 
Kiss the base chains that rivet to the earth, 
And drown Reflection's call in boist'rous mirth ; 
Yet pause awhile amid your festive roar, 
And the scorn'd Christian's lowly cell explore :— 
His are the boundless joys ye seek in vain, 
And his the peace, which Pride shall never gain : 
Borne on the pinions of immortal faith, 
With hope, triumphant o'er the pangs of death, 
Still shall his bosom raise th' unceasing pray'r, 
And trust the guidance of Almighty care. 
The mighty Father of immortal years, 
Who rolls in radiant march the circling spheres,, 
Bows to the suppliant voice a gracious ear, 
Checks the lone sigh, and stops the starting tear : 



166 

Soothes with immortal hope the care-worn breast. 

And gives on earth a gleam of heav'nly rest. 

Ye sous of 'earth, pursue your glided toys, 

And linger in the haunts of fleeting joys ; 

The meteor happiness eludes your gaze, 

And each light blast o'erthrows the bliss you raise* 

JSTow when the urn had pour'd its hissing tide, 
And China's stores our morning wants supplied > 
Our strenuous thoughts to various labours bent, 
The noontide hours in healthful cares we spent. 
Thy voice, Evander, bade the menial throng 
With cheerful mind their busy work prolong ; 
Firm, though benignant, — gentle, though severe/ 
While every rustic bent a duteous ear ; 
And willing love a purer service drew 
Than e'er the proud insulting tyrant knew. 
And oft, by Virtue's gen'rous dictates led, 
From plain to plain thy willing feet have sped ; 
Thy liberal hand reliev'd Affliction's load, 
And led the recreant step to Wisdom's road, 
Pleas'd the drear haunts of latent woe to seek, 
And wipe the tear from Sorrow's faded cheek, 
While strong benevolence thy heart refm'd, 
And Heav'n's own flame inspir'd thy vig'rous mind. 

Here, from the scenes of crowded life retir'd, 
By pure affection's warmest impulse flr'd, 
Her infant train the mother's care instructs, 
And the soft heart in virtue's path cdhductsi 



157 

With flattering gifts and well-tim'd praises crowu'd, 
The listening children ply their tasks around ; 
Tli' expanding mind receives the sweeten'd lore, 
And various Wisdom opes her ample store. 
Thrice happy parents ! in whose blooming race 
Each rising virtue blends with every grace ; 
Thrice happy children ! in whose rev'rend sire 
Prudential care and watchful love conspire. 
Such charm ml scenes transcend the Muse's praise,^ 
Too weak her lyre, too faint her loudest lays, V. 
A tributary song in equal notes to raise. J 

Meanwhile, with glowing heart and hasty feet, 
I bent my way to Learning's still retreat, 
Where many a work of honoured genius stood, 
The golden records of the wise and good. 
No senseless volumes, innocent of thought, 
With empty words and idle fiction fraught ; 
No visionary tales, supinely dull, 
Yet oft of Folly's choicest treasures full ;-~ 
No novels, form'd to tarnish rising age, 
And fan th' imperious passions' latent rage, 
And with curst aim unguarded youth entice 
To the wild mazes of alluring Vice ; — 
But ye, celestial train ! whose towYmg mind 
Unwearied strove, to noblest toils consign'd, 
To stem Profanity's impetuous tide, 
Crush the ppoud bulwarks of triumphant Pride, 



158 

And advocate desponding Virtue's cause, 
Deaf to the voice of censure or applause :*— 
On every shelf your glorious labours shine, H 
Where heav'n-taught genius breathes in every 

line, 
And glowing Truth proclaims her source divine. 

And not alone Religion's votaries meet, 
But every science finds a welcome seat ; 
Here bards # , by hallow'd inspiration taught, 
Display the highest pow'rs of human thought. 

Ye lovely monitors, whose cheering voice 
Jnspir'd your humble votary's earliest choice, 
And cheated into joy my youthful hours, 
With the soft magic of your tuneful powers, 
When sportive childhood taught my feet to rove 
To the still valley or the waving grove, 
Dear were your numbers to my answering hearty 
And bade each wish for empty mirth depart : 
Still let your guardian energies remain, 
Still in my breast your wonted force retain ; 
Lift my fond wishes from the toys of time, 
Correct each passion, and each thought sublime. 

And thou, companion of my youthful way, 
Beloved harp, — prolong thy tender lay. 

'- — . 
* Milton, Young, Cowper, &e. ' 



159 

Oft hast thou cheer'd my wand'rings in the vale 

Of hitter tears, or giv'n the tender tale, 

When Love's soft glow, or Fancy's glittering views, 

sweet enchantment could my hours amuse. 
And while my feet o'er life's bleak mountains 

press, 
Still let thy soothing tones my fancy bless ;— 
Cheer the lone path, alleviate every care, 
And the sweet songs of ardent hope prepare, 
While Faith directs me to that joy-crown'd shore 
Where sins annoy and dangers threat no more. 
And when strong faith expires in certain bliss, 
And Heav'n's full joys the pow'rs of hope dismiss 
Oh let me join the chorus of the sky, 
Beyond the stars that deck the vault on high ! 

Then let my fingers touch a loftier string. 
Then let my voice a louder anthem sing ; 
My rescued soul amid the chosen quire, 
Sons of almighty Love, shall tune her lyre, 
Low at His feet with holiest ardour fall, 
Raise the full song, and hail him Lord of All ; 
Whose bounteous arm for every want provides, 
Whose mercy fosters, and whose wisdom guides I 

Now when the cheerful mansion's rustic board, 
With Nature's gifts in frugal plenty stor'd, 
The full repast had spread for every guest, 
By labour sweeten'd and by temperance blest,— » 



160 

The cheerful hours elaps'd in silent flow ; 

Each heart was hr'd with Friendship's mutual 

glow ; 
From Fashion's dull frivolities releas T d, 
Each opening bosom shared the mental feast — 
Then the rich treasures of the lettered page 
With deathless charms our willing thoughts engage ; 
Pleas'd we survey, by faithful travellers shown, 
The mingled beauties of each distant zone, 
And then the moral strain our eyes explore, 
And feast, O Virtue, on thy sacred lore. 
Far was the sland'rous fiend, whose venom'd dart 
Wounds with malicious aim the guileless heart, 
Assails an absent neighbour's honest name, 
Or nips the laurels of ingenuous fame. 
No idle talk on fashion's varying course,-— 
Ho empty mirth, detraction's endless source,-— 
But fairer scenes in heav'nly forms appear, 
And sweeter accents vibrate on the ear, 

Such were the joys that serious thought* endear 'd, 
Nor these alone our circling moments cheer'd ; 
J$o stoic thralls the pining soul confined, 
Or steel'd with apathy the listless mind; 
But guiltless Pleasure, in her maiden pride, 
With all the sister Graces at her side, 
O'er each warm heart her pleasing transports sh#$. 
By Reason cherish'^, and by Virtue fed^ 



161 

Curs'd be the wretch, who taught the baleful art, 
Whose poisonous influence damps th' aspiring 

heart, — 
Bow'd at the shrine of Pride, and call'd her 

Truth, 
And check'd the blameless energies of youth. 
For say, did Heav'n th' unconscious heart ordain, 
Senseless alike to pleasure and to pain ? — 

But see, while Evening o'er the western main 
Hails her bright star, the leader of her train ; 
See, in blithe bands, by rustic ardour sped, 
The thronging tenants of the turf-built shed, 
Guide o'er the plains, in russet garb srray'd, 
The ripen'd produce of the teeming glade. 
Their useful toils the high-pil'd harvests crown, 
And Nature smiles in glories all her own ; 
Gay peals of rapture fill the echoing bounds, 
And " Harvest Home" from hill • ■-:- bill re- 
sounds. 
In social converse, round the cottage door, 
The merry swains partake their festive store, 
And honest hearts, to Nature's feelings true, 
The scenes of bliss with thankful hope review: 
In soft responsive peals the village bells 
With varying cadence cheer the broider'd dells ; 
While calm Reflection, in the brown-rob'd wood, 
Pours her warm accents to the Source of good, 

M 



\6% 

And to His praise attunes her grateful pow'rs 
Who bids the vales rejoice, and glads the laughing 

hours. 
Ye too, whom infancy's fond bliss delights, 
May share the joys which social mirth invites ; 
For see, with lightsome heart, serenely gay, 
Yon busy group direct their eager play. 

When yellow radiance gilds the glimm'ring spires, 
And twilight's hand unveils the starry fires, 
Oft would I seek the closing hours of eve, 
Pleas'd the false world, and all her pomps, to leave, 
Watch the pale glow-worm's ineffectual beam, 
Or Cynthia's image dancing in the stream :■— 
Heflective Wisdom, with angelic mien, 
Has cheer'd my wand'ring in the silent scene; 
And while her heav'n-directed eye survey'd 
Spring's varied bloom, or summer's grateful shade, 
When the full year its plenteous produce shower'd, 
Or ice-bound winter's foaming tempests lower'd, 
Her glowing heart that Sacred Presence own'd, 
Which, though in Heaven's empyreal height en- 

thron'd, 
Conspicuous shines, with matchless might confest, 
In the green vale by vernal flowrets drest, 
As when his mandate rais'd the spangled pole, 
And bade the starry train effulgent roll,—- 
As when cherubic harps his povv'r confess, 
And flaming tongues his boundless mercy bless, 
6 



165 

From Earth's delusive pageantries retir'd, 
With holy awe and pensive rapture fir'd, 
She gaz'd enchanted on the bright abode, 
Where countless worlds proclaim their forming 

God, 
And, join'd in spirit with th' angelic throng, 
Breath'd from her glowing heart the vesper song. 

Thus tiow'd the tenour of the livelong day, 
Illum'd by sacred Pleasure's fost'ring ray, 
When youthful Time prolong'd the joys of Spring, 
And scatter'd blessings from her downy wing. 
And say, can all the scenes of grov'ling mirth, 
"Whose empty charms enthrall the sons of earth, 
One wishful thought in Virtue's breast excite, 
While scenes like these her passing hours delight ? 
For me, whate'er the righteous doom ordains,—-* 
Enchanting pleasures or affile tive pains, — 
O let me still in rural ease reside, 
Rapt in the bliss to busy Pomp denied, 
And, far remote from Fashion's giddy round, 
Thy praise, Creator God, for ever sound ! 
And oft, by memory lighted on her way, 
With printless foot shall truant Fancy stray, 
And thou, dear Millwood, in whose peaceful cells 
Fair Pleasure smiles, and laughing Plenty dwells, 
Where, crown'd with bliss, my light-wing'd mo- 
ments flew, 
With friends belov'd, and transports ever rtev 



164 

Though envious Fate requires my distant stay, 
Still shall remembrance all thy charms display. 
My wishful heart desires a kindred spot, — 
Some pansied valley, with a smiling cot,— 
Where my tir'd feet in rural peace may rest, 
Freed from the ills that busy life invest. 
There should the warblers unmolested roam, 
And the lone robin find a welcome home ; 
There the first violets of the spring should blow, 
And blooming flow'rs their mingled beauties show*. 
Around the porch should mantling ivy twine, 
And spreading oaks support the clust'ring vine ; 
Here, would kind Heav'n a lov'd associate send*, 
My life to solace, and my walks attend,— 
A book, my studious leisure to beguile, 
With honest ease, and health's enchanting smile, 
And the sweet muse each varied scene t' endear, 
Exalt each pleasure, and each sorrow cheer, 
Pleas'd would I pass my life's allotted hour, 
U nenvious of the joys of pride or powV, 
And earth's vain dross with pitying eye contemny 
Possess'd of Solitudes immortal gem. 
Sworn to no system, blinded by no sect, 
Come, hallow'd Reason, and my course direct; 
Oh ! teach my struggling heart, with heav'n-nVd 

choice, 
To smile in sorrows, and in death rejoice ; 



165 

iMest in the lot by guardian Wisdom givea, 
On earth to antedate the joys of heaven. 
And when my feet have run their destin'd course, 
Unnerv'd my vigour, and extinct my force, 
Freed from this cumbrous tenement of clay, 
Let heav'n-born Peace illume my parting dajr; 
Led by His arm, who died from death to save, 
My steadfast soul shall triumph o'er the grave ; 
Faith shall direct my wishes to the sky, 
And holy I] ope instruct me how to die. 



US 



A POETICAL EPISTLE 



R. C. DALLAS, ESQ. 

(Author of << Elements of Self -Knowledge" « Mis- 
cellanies in Prose and Verse," &c. &c. &c. 

Occasionad by the Perusal of his " Kirkstall Alley -^ 
a Poem. 



How sweet the sacred Poet's tow'ring song ! 
How soothing to the soul the varied notes, 
That warble from the lyre, by skilful hand 
To magic tones attun'd! 'Tis sweet to hear 
The choral symphonies of plumy throngs, 
As, when the sunbeams glitter on the dew, 
Their flowing accents bless th' Omnific Lord, 
Who taught their tribes, by judging instinct ledj 
To rear the downy mansion, that derides 
The toils of human art, and show'rs around 
M 4 



168 

His choicest favours. Glorious are the lays- 

Or pious melody, when tuneful tongues, 

" The pealir.g organ, and the pausing quire," 

Raise the mil anthem of celestial praise. 

Yet sweeter vibrates on the ravish'd soul 

The Poet's heav'n-taught voice, when Fancy wakes- 

The sounding wire, and nature's artless notes 

Melodious echo from the past'ral reed, 

When the rapt Muse in wisdom's lore instructs 

The willing mind ; — in pleasing bondage holds 

Each vagrant thought, and stamps with lenient 

hand 
Fair Virtue's image on the yielding soul. 
And still more potent flows th' aspiring note 
When, 'mid the mould'ring abbey's lonely pile, 
Stupendous wreck of ages, the glad soul 
Wings from terrestrial scenes her daring flight ; 
And pours in Reason's ear the solemn strains 
That erst on Siloe's bank from Cherub's harp 
Sublimely broke : "Glory to God on high : 
Peace to the jarring scenes of earthly strife !" 
And Contemplation bids the chasten'd thought, 
Freed from its veil> review the mingled scenes 
Of crowded life ; with filial awe confess 
The present Deity, and humbly bow 
With new-born fervour at his holy shrine. 

Sweet are creation's charms ; yet sweeter still* 
Ev'n Nature's beauties burst upon the sight, 



\69 

And livelier joys inspire, when faithful songs 

To the mind's eye the vivid scene portray. 

Whate'er the spacious universe contains, 

Of splendid, awful, beauteous, or sublime, 

Still beams with brighter splendours on the soul, 

With nobler graces, if the fav'ring Muse 

Her pow'rful succour lend. The purling stream 

More softly murmurs in the Poet's song ; 

Creation's smile is brighten'd, and the quires 

On every spray a sweeter anthem raise. 

The Muse can bid the fading landscape glow 

With never-fading colours, and restore 

Each vivid scene that happier hours display'd. 

These to the mind a secret charm convey, 

That calms the turbid thought ; restrains the wish 

That violates immortal Virtue's laws ; 

Blunts the keen dart of melancholy care, 

Alleviates every sorrow, and inspires 

Serenest joys and wisdom's pure delights. 

Oft in meand'ring childhood's mirthful hours, 
With airy freedom wand'ring from thy haunts, 
Enchanting Fulneck ! and thy verdant seats, 
My playful youth's abode, my careless feet 
Have gaily rov'd among the lonesome wrecks 
Of Kirkstall's ivied cloisters, and my eye 
W 7 ith sorrowing pleasure linger'd on the scene. 
Oft have I carv'd my name with sportive pride 
D#ep in the tott'ring pillars, sculptur'd round 



170 

With frequent knife by many a rustic hand. 
Oft have I proudly trod the moss-grown height, 
Where erst religion's holy ministers 
To listening throngs proclaim'd the boundless love 
Of- HIM, whose fiat bade this goodly frame 
From chaos rise, and bore the temper'd soul 
On. strong devotion's eagle wing to Heav'm 
Here with faint ardour, down the naked aisles 
I pour' d my feeble voice, and vainly strove 
To bid the roofs re-echo to the sound. 
Then gaily sporting on thy tufted edge, 
Soft murmuring Aire ! with juvenile compeers, 
Have tried what prosp'rous hand could furthest 

hurl 
The fleeting stone ; and favour'd was the wight 
By reckless youth esteem'd, whose potent throw 
Attain'd the distant shore : and oft .supine 
Reposing on the tufts that grace thy side, 
Beneath the osier shade, my hands have cast 
The dangling line, and with alluring bait 
Entic'd the finny tenants of thy flood 
To willing death ; and oh ! what speechless joy 
Fir'd the glad bosom, when the yielding cork 
Declar'd the certain prey, and, rear'd aloft, 
The quivVing line displayed the struggling perch. 
The glitt'ring gudgeon, or the pond'rous trout, 
In ambient air suspended. Litde thought 
Unconscious youth of transitory time, 



171 

Of duties undischarg'd, and many an hour 
In idle sport and thoughtless pleasure past. 
Yet the fair scenes amus'd the languid years 
Of grow ing childhood ; and my panting heart, 
When the bright gudgeon trembled on my line, 
Glow 'd with as much delight, as graver heads, 
Vot'ries of haughty manhood's fonder game, 
Feel when at grandeur's highest aim arriv'd, 
Crow n'd with insane ambition's brightest wreath, 
For martial vict'ries, or the latent tracks 
Of nobler art explor'd. . 

These blended scenes, 
That charm'd my sportive childhood, still delight 
The retrospective soul, when memory's hand 
With glowing pencil draws each daisied mound, 
Each op'ning prospect, and each placid joy 
Which lur'd my infant feet, and every charm 
That youth bestow'd. And well my pensive heart 
Recalls the deepen'd awe, which Kirkstall's fane 
Inspir'd, when first her wild majestic walls 
Burst on my wond'ring fancy. Yet more fair, 
With nobler beauty and sublimer awe, 
They strike the bosom, in thy painting verse, 
Instructive Dallas ! shown. Thy soaring notes 
Give to each stone a more than mortal tongue, 
And paint the vivid landscape to the soul, 
In colours, brighter than the borrow'd hues 
Qf mimic art afford. 



172 

And not alone thy varied verse displays 
Creation's beauties, but, in glowing strains, 
Unlike the languishing seductive lays 
Of modern minstrels, rouses in the soul 
Immortal flames, and bids the wond'ring eye 
In every scene Creation's form unfold ; — 
Behold the Sacred Presence in the haunts 
Of busy men,- — through Nature's rural charms, 
The mould'ring abbey, and the rising pile, 
The mazy streamlet, and the roaring flood, 
Alike confest. How lovely to review, 
With soul -ennobling glance, the vision'd scenes 
Of human life ! How healthful to the mind 
The noiseless hour, when silenc'd fancy lies 
In silken fetters bound, and sinful man 
Holds converse with his God ! Important hour ! 
When conscience, faithful monitor ! repeats 
Each latent crime, that, from th' untutor'd hours 
Of giddy childhood to maturer age, 
The blushing sun beheld. Though deepest shades 
Of mantling night with tenfold gloom involv'd 
The guilty deed ; — though no terrestrial eye 
Surveyed ; — nor empty Rumour's brazen throat 
To mortal ears declar'd: — yet mem'ry's pow'r 
At this still moment to the shudd'ring heart 
Presents th' unhallow'd action, and, array 'd 
In hideous pomp, innum'rous phantoms rise, 
The ghastly spectres of each impious dt&d^ 



173 

'Each slaughtered hour ! The bosom vainly strives, 

With ineffectual efforts, to remove 

TV unwelcome sight. She calls the wanton aid . 

Of Fancy to dispel the vengeful scene ; 

She bids the soul on future pleasure dwell ; 

Rove the gay round of visionary bliss ; 

Recall the past amusement, and depict 

Ideal scenes her haunting fears t' allay : 

Yet calls in vain !— for conscience still pursues 

The struggling victim, - — cries with thundVing 

voice, 
" Your guilt confess in penitential tears, 
Prone at your Maker's feet : while humble grief 
Inspires the contrite pray'r and fearful sigh, 
And warmly supplicates redeeming grace." 

Urg'd with relentless speed, the rolling hours 
Of mortal life depart; with endless course 
Year follows year, and every silent breath 
Conveys us nearer to the fatal bourne. 
Each year removes some pleasure that amus'd 
Our former days : a rev Vend parent falls ; 
A lov'd relation, or a faithful friend, 
Life's noblest treasure, feels th' impartial stroke 
Of all-consuming Death, and cries aloud, 
In strains that will be heard, " Thou too must 

fall! 
Prepare, fond youth, prepare to meet thy God ! M 
The natal day returns ;-^intemp'rate mirth, 



174 

The flowing goblet, and redundant feast, 
Inflame the swelling heart with venom'd joy, 
Bid the swift hours with swifter course depart, 
Each thought corrupt, nor leave a moment's pause 
For calm reflection. — Thus their hours recede : 
And oh ! how few through Nature's peopled 

bounds, 
When the sad knell proclaims another year 
For ever gone, like thee to serious thought 
Th' important period consecrate ; reflect 
On Life's perpetual frailties, and confess 
That earthly joys are vanity and woe ! 
How few, like thee, with penitent regret 
Lament the waning hours of busy life 
In bootless trifles squander'd, and implore 
Celestial grace, with animated hope 
And glowing faith ; to tread with constant step 
Fair Wisdom's blissful paths ; with holy joy 
To spurn terrestrial vanities, and grasp 
"With eager hand Religion's "golden prize! 

Proceed, delightful bard ! to sacred strains 
The hallow'd chords attune, and nobly raise 
To sacred symphonies thy dauntless voice. 
Let others pour the visionary song, 
In tinkling measures, " innocent of thought," 
Sooth the sad soul to sleep with lovelorn lays ; 
Or the fond thoughts from Virtue's flow'ry path 
To Vice's maze seduce with fatal art, 



175 

More deadly than the Syren's luring song : 

Let others warble adulation's note, 

And lull with opiate fumes imperial pride, 

Or titled vice : — he thine the nobler task 

T" attune celestial numbers, and repeat 

To Albion's mirthful swains the solemn song. 

And while each breast with youthful ardour glow-% 

And fading pleasures lure the wand 'ring- feet 

Far from the paths of duty and of peace, 

To gloomy deserts, let thy warning Muse 

Sound on each heart, with heav'n-descended ky% 

Instruction's accents ; Vice to misery guides, 

Virtue to ceaseless bliss. Though blinded crowds 

Scoff and deride thy monitory note, 

Still shall fair Virtue's genuine children love 

Thy welcome song : a never-dying fame, 

Secure beyond th' assaults of giddy time, 

Or envying censure, shall for ever crown 

Thy steadfast labours. When the venal herd 

Sink in oblivion's gulf, thy lovely Muse 

Shall bloom in native charms, and future bards 

Embalm thy mem'ry and thy name revere, 

Religion's Poet, and th' instructive guide 

And faithful monitor of Albion's youth. 



176 



BRITANNIA; 



THE POLITICS OF A RECLUSE, 



As the lone wand'rer from the beacon's brow 
Astonished views the raging waves below ; 
While fraught with death the mad'ning tempests 

roar, 
And many a wreck deforms the sea-beat shore, — 
He hears the Tempest Fiend wild tumult raise, 
And the dire scene with pitying eye surveys, 
Yet stands uninjur'd on th' impervious rock, 
And braves the foaming billows' frustrate shock :— * 
So, from Retirement's visionary height, 
Oft has my fancy rov'd with eager flight ; 
Heard war's loud din re-echo through the land, 
Seen slaughter'd myriads press th' impurpled 

strand, 
While mad Ambition, and impetuous War, 
Roll'd o'er the blood-stain'd earth their adamantine 
car. 

4 



177 

Yet oh ! remote within the hawthorn bower, 
(Blest be th' Almighty Father's guardian power!) 
Or gently wandering by the peaceful Chelt, 
I heard of miseries which others felt. 
The thunders roar'd around my peaceful cell, 
But the red bolt on distant regions fell. 
And as I lay, by dangers undistrest, 
Far from the woes that other climes invest, 
To Britain's God my grateful songs arose, 
Whose pitying mercy crush'd her angry foes, 
Bade the loud yell of inborn discord cease, 
And gave the raptures of domestic peace. 

O'er every clime where genial zephyrs blow, 
And boisterous Ocean's billowy waters flow, 
My tow'ring soul her vent'rous flight pursu'd, 
Their manners noted, and their scenes review'd. 
Yet nought so beauteous on the varying globe, 
Where fost'ring iEther spreads her ambient robe, 
And nought so glorious could my fancy trace, 
Deck'd with such matchless charms and lasting 

grace, 
As thee, fair Albion ! and thy sea-girt isle, 
Where various gifts with envied lustre smile. 

Fav'rite of Heav'n, whose spreading honours 
shine, 
From Greenland's deserts to the glowing Line, 
Whose peerless navies plow the foaming tide, 
Crown'd with triumphal wreaths and conqu'ring 
pride; 



178 

Blest be that Power, whose guardian love protects 
Thy favour'd regions, and thy bliss directs. 
No blood-stained victors riot on thy plains, 
Or load thy trembling sons with galling chains ; 
No fearful clarion echoes through thy streets, 
To rouse thy children from their lone retreats ; 
No slaughter'd myriads welter in thy vales, 
No plaintive murmurs fill the tainted gales. 
Still, when the sunbeams glitter on the dew, 
Thy rustic sons their peaceful toils pursue ; 
The fleecy wanderers crop the flow'ry food, 
And plumy songsters warble through the wood j 
No mad'ning foes thy rural scenes invade, 
But Ceres' gifts replenish every glade ; 
The wild bee murmurs through the blooming fields, 
And the glad year its pregnant produce yields ; 
And oft at evening, round the cottage door, 
Thy vig'rous swains partake the frugal store, 
Quaff the full bowl, the lovelorn ditty sing, 
And shout, Long live Britannia's glorious King I 

And not alone with nature's bounty blest, 
Thy peaceful sons enjoy perpetual rest ; 
And not alone Abundance crowns thy marts, 
And social quiet every bliss imparts ; — 
But nobler gifts propitious Heav'n allows, 
And fairer blessings claim thy grateful vows: 
For on thy plains, in native splendour bright, 
Divine Religion sheds her cheering light; 






179 

The Shades of blinded ignorance dispels, 
And in the favoiu'd land conspicuous dwells; 
Wilh sacred light her glowing lustres show 
The path to ceaseless bliss or lasting woe ; 
Her faithful powers illume the grov'ling crowd, 
Exalt the humble, and abase the proud ; 
And many a Porteus, fir'd with holy zeal, 
Bids erring man his guiltv nature feel, 
With heav'nly truth assails the deafen'd ears, 
Or with sweet strains the contrite bosom cheers ; 
Then to the Cross the wounded sinner guides, 
To wash for ever in the crimson tides. 
See Superstition, mantled in a storm, 
Hies from the plains, and hides her hagard fcrm; 
While pure Devotion from the si:y descends, 
Thy glory fosters, and thy peace defends * 

And o'er thy meads, adorn'd with blooming 
flowers, 
Life's noblest bliss, immortal Freedom towers ; 
Alike the peasant and the prince protects, 
Binds in one chain and by one law directs. 
Not lawless Anarchy, whose hell-born sway 
Lures the fond crowd, then tramples on her prey; . 
Not the fell fie ad ii hose povv'r by myriads curst, 
In ruthless r:^Vv » ah-a's realtes iramejs'd; 
/ fail ^ 



180 

From clime to clime by rev'rend sages led", 
By Reason foster'd and by Virtue fed. 
Her cheering vigour to thy sons decreed, 
Crowns every bliss, and gladdens every mead $ 
High o'er thy realms, unmov'd by party strife, 
She guards their peace, their treasures, and their 

life, 
Hurls into night Oppression's murd'rous band, 
And heaps with lasting joys thy favour'd strand. 

Rage, ye loud storms ! assault our peaceful shore % 
Ye wild winds ! riot, and, ye tempests ! roar : — - 
While sacred Liberty, with eye serene, 
Smiles on our plains, and animates the scene ; 
While pure Religion darts her heav'nly ray, 
And rich-rob'd vales their plenteous gifts display^ 
Still shall our voice th' Almighty Maker bless, 
Resound his goodness, and his pow'r confess. 

Frail are the sons of earth. Her brightest 
climes 
Groan with increasing guilt, and countless crimes % 
Yet thee, with Heav'n's peculiar bounty blest, 
My natal shore I peculiar crimes infest, 
And basest sins almighty love requite, 
While Seraphs shudder at the fearful sight. 

Stay, stay, ye sporters on Perdition's brink,. 
Behold th' expanse below! — behold, and think j 
Ere yet the quiv'ring thunderbolt shall fly, 
While mercy yet receives the, suppliant cry : 



181 

Ye sons of Albion's guilty shore ! be wise 'p*m 
No more your Maker's proffer'd call despise ; 
With humble penitence approach His throne, 
To whom the secrets of each heart are known ; 
Attend the mandates of his gracious will, 
And sacred Virtue's heav'nly calls fulfil, 
Lest, when too late, you mourn th' avenging rod, 
Vindictive thunders, and an angry God, 



*rS 



<isa 



AN. HYMN, 



TRANSLATED FROM THE HEBREW. 

TV Almighty Lord, whose sovereign sceptre swayed 
Yon azure plains, by trembling hosts obey'd ; 
Ere in the void the starry orbs were hung, 
Or Nature's goodly frame from Chaos sprung ; 
What time, arising at his plastic word, 
The fair creation own'd its glorious Lord ; 
Then was he hail'd "Supreme, eternal King," 
While prostrate angels touch'd the golden string. 
And when the orbs that gild the sky decay, 
And earth in wild confusion fades away ; 
He will alone, tremendous Monarch, reign, 
And arm'd with endless might his sway sustain. 

He was, he is, and shall for ever be, 
Crown'd with immortal pow'r and majesty. 
He is the glorious One ; and who can vie 
W 7 ith Him, whose nod controls th' obedient sky ^ 
No second pow'r his mighty sway can share, 
Or with the Source of life and strength compare. 

From vast eternity his reign began, 
jjknd with swift course through circling ages ran ^ 



1S5 

And when revolving years shall cease to roll, 
And fleeting suns forsake the darken'd pole, 
Nought shall Jehovah's boundless age confine, 
Contract his pow'r, or bid his love decline. 
His sure control shall sway the seas and land, 
And conscious worlds obey his high command ; 
While the bright hosts that tread th' empyreal plains, 
With sacred awe confess, " Jehovah reigns." 

This is the God, in whom my soul confides, 
Whose guardian care my feet in safety guides. 
This the sure friend, whose arm my life redeems, 
This the blest fount, from which my comfort 

streams ; 
This is my steadfast rock ; " a rock that braves 
The raging tempests, and the rising waves :" 
Firm in his strength I dwell in soft repose,, 
And view secure the rage of angry foes. 

My glorious banner, my divine retreat, 
My blissful lot, with heav'nly joys replete ; 
Whose gracious ear my suppliant voice attends, 
Whose pow'rful arm my trembling life defends ; 
My guardian bulwark, and almighty shield, 
'Tis to thy care with joyful trust I yield ! 
By day and night with gracious hand protect, 
And through the maze of life my steps direct. 
The Lord is mine ; — secure in him I rest, 
Fear shall no more invade my tranquil breast, 

k4 



1.84 ; 

AD ILLUSTREM JOHANNEM RING, 

LONDINI 

CHIRURGUM CELEBERRIMTJM, 

J. D.WORGAN S.P.D. 

ILLUSTHISSIME VIR, 

AeciPE igiioti tibi poetae munuscula ; 
erroribus veniam-concedas, juvenisque qui vix sex- 
decem annos vidit, ignoscentia relegas poemata. 
Non hercute poeseos nitore, iron Horatii aut 
Ansteii divino oestro, mea carmina exornantur : 
ast 



Illud amicitias sanctum et venerabile Numen, 

me quoque tuas laudes iniquo tentare carmine 
jussit ; et dum Jenneri, tuisque laudibus, extrema 
terrarum littora resonant, 

Et meae (si quid loquar audiendum) , 
Vocis accedet bona pars. 

- 

Cheltenham. 
Jmiimm- Lmmdis, 1 807 . 



3S5 



AD ILLUSTREM JOHANNEM RING, 



CH1RURGUM CELEBERRIMUM. 

Audin ? Qui soni tus auribus irruunt }■ 
Qua? voces, miserum mistae ululatibua, 
Europae subito terrificant metu 

Gentes, cordaque permovent ? 

Audin ? Jam videor cefnere fervidoJ 
Heroas, gladios sanguine sordidos 
Stringentes ; resonant litora martio 
Fletu, terraque coutremit. — 

Bellatorum alii facta furentium 
Stridenti celebrent carmine, sertaque 
Nectent temporibus : — : Non cithane graves 
Martis conveniunt modi, 

u Nymphae, noster amor," Pierides metu 
Perculsae fugiunt, et trepid£ petunt, 
Qiiem digna decorent laude, et honoribus 
iEterois cumulent lyrse. 



18o 

Jam jam perspiciunt turbida litora, 
Alta et voce rogant : " Quis bonus adstitit 
Mcerenti patriae ? Quis bonus emicat 
Human! generis pater ? 

66 Quis, stans intrepido corde, calumnias 
Audacesque miuas provocat hostium ? 
Coeli et muniiico percitus ambitu, 
Aufert terrigenis mala ? 

" Ulius decorent tempora floribus, 
Formosaque hedera, Pimpleidum chorus ; 
Illius citfaarae factaque praedicent 
Humani generis patris." 

Non dux, terrificum militias decus, 
Non cristatus eques, turbave bellica j— 
Illoium comitat pallida mors viam, 
Dura et subsequitur fames. 

Non qui, luxuriis doctus inanibus, 
Consultus vacua? stat sapientiae : 
Horum vana perit gloria, firmaque 
Virtus nomina rejicit : 

Sed qui, despiciens munera divitum, 
Funestis hominum prasbet opem malis ; 
Vit'am pacificis excolit artibus, 
Genti vinclaque. subievat. 



187 

Vos ergo, celebres, litoris Anglici 
Splendor ! Vos, medici ! Tuque, salutifer 
Pingi, perpetua? mcenia gloria?, 
Scandetis pede prospero. 

En ! quali radio filius emicat 
Sabrina? ! rutilum laudibus efferet 
N omen posteritas, grataque couciuet 
Vaccina? strenuum patrem ! 

Nee, Ringi, merits? percipient tua 
Laudis facta minus : vivet in omnia 
Clarum sa?cla dec us, nescia termini 
Stabit famaque debita. 

Musarum eximiis lauribus emines 
Ciiigendus, propria luceque splendidus; 
Seu pollente manu pallida febrium 
Pergas agmma pellere ;-— 

Seu, fulgore micans, iEgida proferas 
Vaccina? rutilam ; dextraque, lanceam 
Divinam quatiens, Variola? fugam 
Invisa? pueris dedit. 

Augusta? miseris turba parentium 
Complebant ululans mcenia iietibus, 
Et lugent lacrymis (beu ! nimis irritis ! ) 
Mains vulnere gaudium. 



183 

Abreptum subito, et Virginia jctibus 
Mactatam faciem,-— jam gemitus sonant;—* 
frustra ; — non speciem restituit dolor, 
Saevae aut Persephoni placet, 

Tu, Ringi, studio gnarus Apollinis, 
Matrum perpetuis corda timoribus 
Sol vis, suppeditans scutum adamantinum, 
Coelesti auxilio potenjs, 

Dilectae soboli praesidium dare :-— 

Jam crebre volitent ebria sanguine 

Circum Variolae spicula — provocat 

Pubes incolumis minas.-— » 

Indefessus iter carpis in avias 
Mendacum latebras, laetus et eripis 
Insanae tegumen nequitiae, genus 
Firma suppliciis manu, 

Vecors afficiens : — caeca cohors furat 
Insana rabie ; spargat anilibus 
Comment® Improbitas nisibus ;*— aure$ 
Perstat, te duce, Veritas. 

Et (seu magnanimus, concutiens comas^ 
Invictis domitor viribus insilit 
Syl varum, trepidis agminibus ferurn^ 
Instantem minitans necem, 



lit erebro lacerat corpora vulnere : 
Dum, terrore citi, corripiunt fugani, 
Et spela?a petunt, nocte recondita, 
Sylvasque haud penetrabiles 

Titanis radio:) — Sic, rapido pede, 
Vaccina; stolidis in ids hostibus ; 
Nee, pergens alacer, prselia deseris, 
Donee victa jaeet cohors, 

Invitoque gradus retrahit ; irritam 
Exhalans rabiem, falsaque compitis, 
Mendacis cerebri progeniem, ferens, 
Nativas tenebras petit* 

Sublimi solio, Variolam fugans, 
J am Vaccina sedet ; Teque perennibus 
Victorem probitas laudibus accipit, 
Xomen grataque pnedicaL 

Nee tantum niedicis prasditus artibus 
Splendes : — ambo tuus munera prctbuit 
Phoebus : Paeoniam scire poteutiam, 
Dextram viribus instruens ; 

Et pulsare manus dulcisonee fides 
Aurato doeuit pectine /2#£b/7&, 
Atque os praecipuit fmidere carmina, 
Sacro numme perciturn. 



290 

Quam suavi cithara Pieris Handell 
Pivinam cecinit gloriara, honoribus 
Lsetis commemorans nomen, et emuls 
Fulgens splendida Batii. 

Ansteius, propriis praedita gratiis, 
Cui splendet salibus lucida pagina, 
Vestris auxiliis matribus Anglieis 
Vaccinas recinit decus. 

Et nunc Agricolis docta Britannicis 
Reddet Virgilii Musa Georgica :— » 
Heus ! tandem prqpera, neve diutius 
Secretum teneas opus. 

"Matris progeniem donee Amor fovet 
lerventi gremio :— donee imaginem 
Ipsius genitor diligit, almaque 
M or tales Pietas regit :- — 

Exardens juvenum dum recolit Conors 
Artes ingenuas, Musave pectora 
Vatum lasta movet ; — dumque levamina 
JEgrotis medici ferunt ; — 

Vestris attribuet Candida Veritas 
Laudem promeritis : — nil valet hostiura 
Mendacuni rabies : — nil malus impetus : 
— Pupes sequora provocat.-— 
5 



19! 

O ! vobis facilis lentaque profluat 
Annoruin series ; lenia prsebeat 
JEteimuj Genitor gaudia, terminum 
Laetumque accipiet dies. 



J. D- W 



WA 



AN ELEGY, 



WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1807* 



J3y the pale embers of the fading fire, 

Kapt in the dreams that Hope and Love inspire, 

I keep my -vigils, list ning to the gale 

That makes wild music down the twilight vale. 

When the tir'd sense is hush'd, and calm repose 

Steals o'er the heart at ev'ning's tranquil close, 

3 T is sweet to bid a crowded world farewell, 

.And seek ideal bliss in Fancy's cell. 

Touch'd by her wand the thronging thoughts arisi 

From earth's dim scenes, and mingle with the skies. 

The raptur'd soul escapes her mortal frame, 

And speeds her vent'rous course on wings of flame,— ~ 

Pierces the shades of night with eagle gaze, 

Or looks undazzled on th' empyreal blaze,— 

Rides on the pennons of embattled storms, 

And holds- high converse with aerial forms— - 

But hark ! — on yonder Blast what accents float I 

*Tis the sad death-bell Sings its hollow note: 



193 

It bids my mind from airy visions turn. 
The sad realities of life to mourn. 
And has stem Fate against thy throbbing heart 
At length, my Ambrose, hurPd th' expected dart? 
Too sure thy doom is fix'd : the passing bell 
Gives to the murm'ring winds thy mournful knell. 
Methinks the spirits of the night I hear 
Their mystic dirges muttering o'er thy bier ;— - 
Methinks the lineaments of death £ trace, 
The sunken eyeball, and the livid face ;— 
The shroud's dim folds thy wasted limbs array, 
And fierce Corruption hovers for her prey. 

Adieu, fair Fancy, to thy glitt'ring views ; 
Their charms are dimm'd by Sorrow's black'ning 

hues: 
Take the dear phantoms from my musing soul, 
Which awful thought and hallow'd grief control. 

Ambrose, thy race is run, — thy toils are o'er ; 
Thou dwellest where distress can wound no more s 
In the still paths of life thy feet have trod, 
And soon shall rest beneath the peaceful sod. 
What though no trophies glitter to thy praise, 
Nor Glory greet thee with her echoing lays : 
Thine is a nobler boast ;*— with moisten'd cheek 
Thy narrow dwelling-place shall Friendship seek. 
And Truth, thy leader through the paths of earth, 
Shall tell thy children of departed worth, 



194 

And say, while pity heaves the sigh sincere, 
" A son of honourd Virtue slumbers here/' 

That hand, which lies transform'd to pallid clay, 
Has wip'd the tear from Sorrow's cheek away : 
That deafen'd ear has caught the half-breath'd sigh 
Of modest Want and hapless Industry : 
That silenc'd tongue has wak'd the mirthful glow, 
Or bade the strains of sacred Wisdom flow : 
And in that lifeless heart, (though stain'd within, 
And stamp'd with many a trace of native sin,) 
Yet Holiness a new-born dwelling reard, 
Where each bright grace of heav'nly growth ap- 

pear'd ; 
New life she gave, and righteousness, and peace, 
From Him, whose pard'ning mercies shall not 

Rous'd by her quick'ning pow'r, the heart arose 
Triumphant o'er the world, its joys, and woes ; 
And, as on earth it own'da Saviour's love, 
Is own'd by Him before the hosts above. 

Lamented and rever'd ! — shall artless Truth 
Speak thy full honours through the lips of youth $ 
And though thou scarce hast known my humble 

name, 
Shalt my wild harp thy virtuous praise proclaim ? 
Yes ! — *f or the sons of Virtue shall be dear 
To every heart, and claim the general tear* 



195 

And though, by Fortune's varying will opprest, 
Ne'er was my bosom with thy friendship blest; 
Ne'er did mine eyes behold thy mortal form, 
Ne'er did thy voice my kindred fancy warm ; 
Still o'er thy tomb, by sacred sorrow led, 
Let the fond muse her humble offering shed ; 
Weep for her woe, whose bursting sighs bemoan 
Her tender guide «nd lov'd associate flown ; 
Weep for thy babes, on life's wide ocean tost, 
Their watchful sire and steadfast guardian lost ; 
Weep for the poor, whose tearful eyes behold 
The dark damp vault their strenuous friend enfold; 
Weep for myself, lamenting thou hast died, 
Ere mutual friendship had our souls allied. 

But see ! what rays the midnight shades illume ; 
What heav'nly splendours pierce th' incumbent 

gloom ! 
^Cherubic glories beam along the sky, 
And angel forms salute the wondering eye ! 
Mute be the plaintive note ! — I rise ! I rise! 
Immortal Faith her eagle wing supplies : 
She lifts my fancy from the tufted sod, 
To Sion's mansions, and the throne of God. 
Hush'd be the voice of woe !— -celestial peace 
Calms my sad soul, and bids the tumult cease c 
Methinks, transported to that blissful shore, 
Where heavenly quires Almighty Love adore, 
* 3 



196 

My ravish'd eyes inuumerous throngs behold 
Strike with ecstatic joy their lyres of gold, 
And round Jehovah's awful throne unite, 
In emerald crowns and robes of ambient light. 
And who are they, yon bright exulting band, 
Who round their Father King for ever stand ; 
With grateful zeal prolong th' adoring strain, 
And shout, '" All. glory fo the Lamb once slain V r 
These are the ransom'd throng, who firmly pressed 
Through life's rough storm, with heav'nly succour 

bless'd ; 
These are the joyful train, whom hallow'd woes 
Bade on their Saviour's dying love repose : 
Now, as with Him they suffered earthly care, 
With Him they rest, and all his triumphs share, 

And who is he, that shines with vivid grace, 
While sacred beauty sparkles in his face ; 
Who wakes to sweetest notes th' obedient lyre, 
While speechless joys his ravish'd thought inspire tl 
<— 'T is Ambrose ! — It is he ! — Methinks I view 
His visage crown'd with splendours ever new; 
And oh ! how alter'd from the child of woe, 
Depress'd by sickness, and the fatal blow ! 
Beyond the tow'ring fancy's loftiest sway, 
In realms of aether and immortal day, 
High on a radiant throne he sits sublime, 
And views with pitying scorn the scenes of time. 



197 

Tie sees the guilt-stain'd pageantries of Earth, 
How brief her glories, and how vain her mirth; 
And, could a thought of mortal misery dart 
Across the perfect angel's glowing heart, 
Fain would he cry to many a blinded throng, 
" How transient time ! eternity how long !"- 
And bid each gale the solemn strain repeat, 
" Prepare, fond man, prepare thy God to meet." 

Cease then, my soul, thy fruitless murmur still, 
And bow obedient to the Sovereign Will. 
That death, which prompts thy fondly-mournful 

plaint, 
Bore to celestial peace the conquering saint. 

And thou, blest partner of his ardent love, 
Doom'd the full powers of grief and joy to prove, 
Oh ! cease to mourn the frowns of alter'd fate, 
Thy lost associate, and thy widow'd state. 
Surrounding griefs may damp the starless night, 
Prompt the deep sigh, and many a tear excite ; 
But heav'n-born rays shall deck the morning skies/ 
And the bright sun with healing beams arise. 
There is a Power Supreme, whose mighty sway 
With prostrate awe contending worlds obey ; 
Oh ! let thy soul his cheering voice attend : 
" I am the drooping widow's changeless friend ; 
And I will stand the orphan's faithful guide, 
Crush eveiy ? foe, — for every want provide." 
o 3 



His plastic word th' aerial plain controls, 
Guides the wide world, and rules the spangled 

poles ; 
And shall not He thy bounded wish supply ? 
Oh ! banish fear, and on his arm rely. 
Still shall his guardian care thy steps direct, 
Thy children foster, and thy cause protect ; 
Blunt the keen darts of anguish as they fly, 
And wipe the tear-drop from each moistenM eye, 
Till, when thy soul, from mortal bondage freed, 
While earth-born glories from thy view recede, 
Mounts on the wings of Hope, and borne above 
To the blest regions of delight and love, 
Thy bounding feet the sacred mansions tread, 
And lambent glories deck thy star-crown'd head. 
And while th' unutterable transports rise, 
Thy long-lov'd Ambrose shall salute thine eyes ; 
There in ecstatic bliss your souls shall meet, 
Your crowns of glory cast at Jesus' feet ; 
Join with seraphic hosts the duteous lay, 
Your Saviour God adore, and endless homage pay. 

And ye, who weep for your departed sire, 
"While big tears roll, and mutual groans transpire^ 
Oh ! while you mourn the father and the friend, 
His dying precepts let your hearts attend. 
Bid the pure signs of holy grief appear, 
And bow to Wisdom's voice a willing ear ; 



199 

And while your feet o'er rising life shall stray, 
And many a care annoy the toilsome way, 
Oh ! keep your father's image still in view, 
His virtues emulate, his course pursue ; 
Live, by fair Virtue's genuine sons belov'd, 
And die, by Conscience and by Heav'n appro v\i, 

Blest spirit ! if, yon starry spheres among, 
Thine ear can listen to a mortal's song, 
Smile on the warblings of a w r eak-ton'd lyre, 
Which Friendship wakes, as Truth and Love inspire 
And oh ! may he, whose feeble hand would raise 
To sacred worth a monument of praise, 
Tracing thy progress to the world unknown, 
Aspire with thee to hail the Saviour's throne ! 
When circling years the solar beam obscure, 
There may we shine, of endless joy secure ; 
When the dim stars driv'n from their centre fly, 
And lawless ruin sweeps th' embattled sky, 
Still shall his arm our faith and hope sustain ; 
Still shall we bask in Sion's griefless plain ; 
Smile at frail earth in countless atoms hurl'd, 
Expiring nature, and a flaming world ; 
Join the full concert of uniting spheres, 
Rise o'er the wrecks of time, and bloom in endless 
years. 



© 4 



AN ADDRESS 



ROYAL JENNERIAN SOCIETY, 

FOR THE EXTERMINATION OF THE SMALL-POX^ 
BY VACCINE INOCULATION ; 

\ 

as tMEiz jnnifersjSRX festifjl, M/tr ijrn, 1808. 



AN ADDRESS*, 

SfC. 



Loud sounds the clarion through the turbid air, — 
Wide o'er the pla ns impetuous legions glare; 
To arms' To arms ! the panting heroes cry, 
To arms ! To arms ! the vocal shores reply. 
Britannia's 1 sons the patriot impulse feel, 
Rush to the fight, and bare the conqu ; i *ng stee! ; 
While martial ardour fires the dauntless throng, 
And raptur'd Poets raise th' inspiring song. 
But ah ! the tumults of the sanguine field 
To Virtue's throbbing heart no transport yield. 
Contending hosts, the trumpet's loud alarms, 
The shouts of conquest, and the din of arms, 



* This Address was printed, and presented to the 
Jennerian Society on their annual meeting in 1808. 



Awake no raptures in her gentle thought, 
Like the glad strains by rescu'd nations taught, 
When gaunt Destruction's crimson flag is furl'd, 
And heav'n-born Peace renews a wasted world. 
She saddens at the load of ghastly cares, 
Which man for man with studious toil prepares. 1 
To softer themes she wakes the willing lyre, 
Warrn'd with a purer flame of sacred fire ; 
And, while each vale with notes of mirth rebounds, 
Thy praise, divine Philanthropy, she sounds. 
Is there a heart, whose generous passions glow 
To share another's joy, — another's woe ? 
Is there a breast, by Pity's flame reiin'd, 
That pants to work the bliss of human kind ? 
To you, blest Patriots of the world, she 

sings — 
To you the Muse her humble tribute brings. 
That blissful train her brightest palms receive, 
Whose heav'nly toils the suff ring earth relieve ; 
And, on this day, when Albion's chiefs conspire 
From Glory's mad'ning vortex to retire, 
And hail with votive songs the natal hour 
Of him who stopp'd Contagion's deadly power, 
Rous'd with a warmth to vulgar themes unknown, 
She turns to joyful strains the plaintive groan : 
And, while her hands unfading chaplets twine 
Around her Jenner's honour'd brow to shine, 



205 

She sounds that name, to Britons ever dear, 
Which checks the infant's moan, the parent's tear, 

Mute be the cannon's roar ! — ye thunders, 
cease ! 
Ye sprightly tabrets, wake the notes of peace : 
Let Albion's virgin train his glory speak, 
Who shields the roses on the vermeil cheek : 
In festal songs, ye parent band, reply, 
While Joy's bright tear-drop glistens in each eye 5 
And lisp His name, ye blooming infant throngs, 
Whose heav'n-directed arm your vital breath pro- 
longs. 

Let others urge the glittering toils of War, 
Yok'd to Ambition's desolating car ; 
Rush to th' ensanguin'd plains, or, madly brave ; 
Impel deluded myriads to the grave : 
Tis thine, blest Jenner, with auspicious hand s 
To chase one Demon from the trembling land,-^ 
Avert the fainting babe's impending doom, 
And rescue nations from the yawning tomb. 

Too long Vaeiola, with blood-stain'd vest, 
Prowl'd o'er the plains, and shuddering earth op- 

prest; — • 
Chill'd the sad heart,— polluted ev'ry gale, 
And spread contagion o'er th' affrighted vale. 
Ye agonizing train, who drop the tear 
Of speechless anguish o'er th' infantile bier ;«*-* 



206 

Ye lovers, doom'd in beauty's prime to mourn 
Your dear associates from your bosoms torn ; — 3 
Oh ! say what ills have prey'd on hopeless man, 
Since, curs'd Variola, thy reign began. 
Affection's groan, — the parent's piercing cry,— 
Rose on each gale, and echo'd to the sky. 
Th' Almighty Father heard the deathful moan, 
And bade Compassion leave her starry throne ; 
Swift at his voice the meek-ey'd seraph flew, 
Till earth's blue mountains glimmer 'd in her view,-*— 
With downy pinion cleft th' aerial way, 
And bade her wand the tide of anguish stay. 
Far from the crowded haunts of empty fame, 
She wak'd in Jenner's breast a kindred flame ; 
Straight in his hand a steely point she plac'd, 
With matchless pow'rs and guardian virtues grac'd, 
And said: " With this yon speckled fiend 

disarm ; 
With this, Contagion's rav'nous fury charm ;— 
This shall relieve the parent's drooping soul, 
Sweet hope inspire, and anxious doubt controul." 

Rous'd at her strains, with Virtue's hallow'd glow, 
Content his rural pleasures to forego, 
His steadfast heart sustained the toilsome care, 
That every clime his healing gifts might share. 
With strong benevolence, his tow'ring mind 
The lures of wealth and private gain resign'd, 



207 

While distant chiefs, by Wisdom's dictates led, 
Wide o'er each laud Vaccina's blessings spread. 

# See ! at Philanthropy's divine command, 
Thy sons, Iberia, quit their native strand ; 



* The expedition to which this passage alludes, is 
of a nature unprecedented in the annals of history. A de- 
tailed account of its origin and completion has appeared 
in a Supplement to the Madrid Gazette of Oct. 14th, 
1806, which informs us, that " On Sunday, the 17th 
of September last, Dr. Francis Xavier Balmis, Surgeon 
Extraordinary to the King of Spain, had the honour of 
kissing His Majesty's hand on occasion of his return from 
a voyage round the world, executed with the sole ob- 
ject of carrying to all the ultra-marine possessions of the 
crown of Spain, and to those of several other nations, 
the inestimable gift of Vaccine Inoculation." Dr. Balmis, 
accompanied by several members of the Faculty, sailed 
from Corunna on the 30th of November 1803, carry- 
ing with him twenty-two children, who had never under- 
gone the small-pox, for the purpose of keeping up a suc- 
cessive series of inoculations, and effectually preserving 
the vaccine virus during the voyage. The expedition pro- 
ceeded in two divisions, which severally circumna- 
vigated the globe, disseminating Vaccination as they 
went, through every nation, whether friends or foes. 
They communicated it, among the rest, to the English^ 
at St. Helena, and to the Visayan Islands, " the chiefs 
of which >" says the Gazette, w accustomed to wage 



208 

With dauntless hope innnmerous toils they dare, 
From pole to pole the vital gift to bear. 
No deep-mouth'd cannons thunder o'er the main, 
No sanguine fights the placid wave distain, 
But smiling Peace- her olive-branch displays, 
And faltering infants lisp their Guardian's praise, 
As on their arms the sovereign shield they show, 
Whose heav'nly powers repel th' eruptive foe, 
With mystic charm extend the fleeting breath, 
And blunt the direst of the shafts of death. 

From the bleak plains, which lasting snows o'er- 
whelm, 
To Libya's wilds, and Afric's parching realm;— 
From boist'rous Oronooko's headlong stream, 
To where the Brahmin hymns the solar beam; — 
Vaccina reigns, with deathless honours crown'cJ, 
And spreads her giad'ning influence wide around; 
And here, commission'd from the realms above, 
Demands a nation's thanks, a nation's love. 



Perpetual war with us, have laid down their arms, ad* 
miring the generosity of an enemy, who conferred upon 
them the blessings of health and life, at a time when 
they were labouring under the ravages of an epidemic 
small-pox." In the progress of the expedition 230,0©© 
persons were successfully vaccinated. 



209 

In vain would Envy, with her venal horde. 
Assail that name by distant climes ador'd*, 
Or hellish Avarice, leagu'd with Death, obtain 
Her private interest from the public bane,— 4 * 
Ye sordid minds, to genuine worth unjust, 
Roll in your native mire, and lick the dust. 
But know, Vaccina claims a loftier fame, 
While thronging patriots bless her honour'd name ; 
And, as her friends with liberal ardour meet, 
To pour their bounteous offerings at her feet, 
Britannia crowns the deed with just applause, 
And beams propitious on the glorious cause ; 
A long-lov'd King his generous aid combines, 
And Truth, obscur'd in vain, triumphant shines. 
These are our glories f : — and, while these remain, 
Still shall Vaccina spread her cheering reign ; 



* A letter which is printed in page 90 of this volume 
contains an account of a ceremony annually practised 
among the Germans, which fully justifies this expression, 
however improper it may appear. 

f In forming an estimate of the merits of Vaccination 
the Author would be unwilling to repose upon the 
opinion of an individual, of a society, or of a nation. 
But the experience of the whole world has given the 
most decided testimonial in favour of the practice; and 
should any secondary testimonial be required, the evi- 
dence of the Royal Colleges of Physicians and Surgeons, of 
P 



210 

Still shall her healing energies extend, 
Our cares alleviate, and our race befriend ;" 
And future ages, wondering as they read 
Of woes, which once the speckled fiend de* 
creed, 



London, Edinburgh, and Dublin, which, after the most 
laborious investigation, was laid before the British Senate, 
must convey peculiar satisfaction to the mind of every 
Englishman. Their Report contains an impartial dis- 
cussion of the subject, and concludes by stating " that 
they feel it their duty strongly to recommend the practice 
of Vaccination. They have been led to this conclusion 
by no preconceived opinion, but by the most unbiassed 
judgment, formed from an irresistible weight of evidence 
which has. been laid before them. For when the number, 
the respectability, the disinterestedness, and the exten- 
sive experience of its advocates, is compared with the 
feeble and imperfect testimonies of its few opposers ; 
and when it is considered that many, who were once 
adverse to Vaccination, have been convinced by further 
trials, and are now to be ranked among its warmest sup- 
porters, the truth seems to be established as firmly as 
the nature of such a question admits ; so that the Col- 
lege of Physicians conceive that the Public may rea- 
sonably look forward with some degree of hope to the 
time when all opposition shall cease, and the general 
concurrence of mankind shall at length be able to put an 
end to the ravages at least* if aot to the existence, of 
tfce Small-Pox.'* 



211 

Shall bless that arm by gracious Heav'n designed 
T' avert the deadly scourge of human kind, 
And, as their tears embalm th' illustrious dead, 
In Freedom's cause who conquer'd or who bled, 
To Jenn Eli's name a grateful world shall raise 
The well-earn'd monument of deathless praise. 



F& 



SONNETS, 



*s 



SONNETS. 

SONNET I. 

TO AFFECTION. 

Sweet nymph, who wander'st o'er the tufted vales, 

Warbling soft minstrelsy, while op'ning flower* 
Thy twining locks embrace, and balmy gales 

With love-fraught accents fill thy jasmine bowers; 
Oh ! come, my sorrowing moments to beguile, 

And bring the speaking look, the tender sigh, 
The timid glance, the soul-enchanting smile, 

And the soft tear that flows, unknowing why. 
By the still streamlet, o'er the dewy mead, 

While Philomela trills her melting lay, 
Thy favouring star my willing steps shall lead, 

And one lov'd friend endear my lonely way, 
The joys of Apathy let others prove ;— 
Be mine the sweet solicitudes of Love, 
p 4 



216 

SONNET II. 

TO A FRIEND GOING TO LONDON, 



From the dear village and its flow'ry dell, 

To Pride's tumultuous scenes thy feet must go 5 
See, where Augusta's glittering turrets swell, 

Wide-blended haunts of pleasure and of woe ! 
And while thy soul to Wealth and Fame aspires, 

Thou It scorn the vale in Nature's beauties drest; 
But say, — can glory satiate thy desires ? 

Can shining gold atone for banish'd rest ? 
'Tis o'er a gloomy waste we're doom'd to tread, 

And wiser they, who strew their path with 
flowers ; 
Twine the gay chaplet for their weary head, 

And nurse bright visions in Retirement's bowers; 
Than they, who toil in Grandeur's idler schemes, 
Yok'd to the car of Pride, or luU'd in Glory's 
dreams. 



SONNET III. 

HOME.— TO A FRIEND, 

Friend of my heart, whose feet with mine would 
stray 

From Greenland's deserts to the glowing Line ; 
Ah ! why to distant climes direct our way ? 

What scenes more bright than yonder woodlands 
shine ? 
There, in some cot, from busy toils withdrawn, 

To us shall Friendship's noblest joys be given; 
Together will we rove at peep of dawn, 

Together watch the friendly star of even. 
And oft, beneath the pale moon's pearly ray, 

We'll linger near some fountain's murm'ring fall ; 
Catch the sweet nightingale's congenial lay, 

And bless with grateful songs the Lord of AIL 
Oh ! whither would our flutt'ring fancy roam, 
While Friendship, Health, and Peace endear our 
tranquil home ? 



■ f IS 

SONNET- IV. 
PLEASURE 

JIaste then, ye wanderers, to the haunts of Pride; 

Tread the gay circles of the mazy dance ; 

With reeling hearts in Pleasure's wilds advance, 
And breathe her poisonous gales. — Where Avon's 

tide 
KolTs in light murmurs to the western deep, 

Meanwhile I rest, and on her willowy shore 

Sit list'ning to Sabrina's soften'd roar, 
Or watch the sea-gull o'er the rocky steep 
His circling flight pursue. — Devotion's power 

lifts my freed spirit to th' empyreal plains j 
On Ecstacy's immortal wings upborne, 

My glowing heart your grov'ling bliss disdains: 
I pluck th' unfading rose, without a thorn;— 

You feel the piercing thorn, yet miss the flower. 



£19 

SONNET V, 

TO THE RIVER FROOME. 

Sweet, lovely stream,- — across my native lawn 

That roll'st in modest pride thy silent wave ; 
My willing feet, by magic impulse drawn, 

Seek the dear meadows which thy waters lave. 
Oft, with the partners of my youthful play, 

I pluck'd the cowslip from thy tufted side, 
And, as we bask'd in Pleasure's orient ray, 

In gadding balls the drooping flowrets tied. 
Pure was my bosom as thy glassy face, 

Soft as thy wave my blissful moments flow'd ; 
Now, while my eyes thy well-known beauties trace, 

They add fresh weight to Sorrow's whelming 
load. 
Scenes once belov'd my anxious heart annoy : 
4fcid&r£ the monuments of long-lost joy. 



In 

SONNET VL 
ON A SUICIDB. 



WfTERE yon pale cypress shades the lonely wa^ 

Sleep the cold relics of a lovely maid : 
Long did the star of Peace, with cloudless ray, 

Beam on her path ; till barbrous man betray'd 
Her soft, unpractis'd heart. — Awhile she gaz'd 

With horror on herself ; till grim Despair 
To her pale lips the fatal goblet raised, 

DFwgg'd with the poisonous draught. — With 
idiot stare, 
And frenzied laugh, she heav'd the bitter throe, 

Till Death's chill dews her beauteous face o'er- 
spread, 
And dimm'd her sparkling eye. — O child of woe! 

Light lie the green-sward on thy hapless head ! 
But what shall be the guik-stahVd wretch's tioonv 
Whose treacherous passion hurl'd thee to the tomb! 



22TI 



SONNET VII. 

WRITTEN IN A GROTTO, CONTAINING 
THE BUSTS OF ILLUSTRIOUS HEROES. 

Decked with bright guerdons of immortal fame. 

In native splendour Albion's heroes shine ; 
A wondering world resounds their boasted name, 

And twining laurels deck their brilliant shrine. 
But say, cherubic train, whose flaming quire 

Fill with ecstatic lays the vocal sky, 
Are these the race, whom heavVs eternal Sire 

Views with peculiar smile and fav'ring eye ? 
Go,— to yon moss-clad cell direct thy feet ; 

There shall thine eyes a nobler Hero view ; — • 
See suppliant Faith infernal powers defeat, 

And heav'nly Grace Corruption's might subdue. 
This lowly Conqueror of himself survey, 
And ah * how mean is Grandeur's dazzling ray ! 






SONNET VIIL 

WRITTEN IN A BOWER DEDICATED TO 
PEACE. 



The spreading beech and verdant ivy twine, 

And op'ning roses deck the friendly bower ; 
Yet, ah ! though N ature's brightest charms combine, 

Not here will Peace extend her soothing power, 
'T is not Ambition's bait, nor Splendour's show, 

Can lure the placid virgin's ling'ring feet ; 
But the blest heart, where heav'nly passions glow, 

She calls her joyful dome, her hallow'd seat. 
If humble Faith inspire the longing breast, 

If conscious guilt excite the sorrowing prayer, 
Though poor, illiterate, destitute, oppress'd, 

The cherub rears her holy temple there ; 
And, when fell Time the blooming bow'r destroys, 
Will fill the grateful heart with heav'n's immortal 

j°y s ° 



SONKET IX. 

TO AMBITION. 

Sound thy shrill conch, thou queen of anxious 
cares, 
And lift thy lurid torch, whose dazzling rays 
May lure the fond crowd o'er thy slippery ways, 
To chase the visionary prize, that glares 
Upon thy rocky height. — The balmy gale, 
That whispers peace, is sweeter to my breast; 
Than all thy lurements, and my wishes rest 
In the lov'd cot that smiles on yonder vale. 
The cumbrous glories of the proud and rich 
Within my heart no envious thought awake; 
When death-fraught storms th* aspiring moun- 
tains shake, 
Peace spreads her wing around my humble niches 
I view the distant clouds with fearless eye, 
And for the sons of Grandeur heave a sigh. 



SONNET X. 
ON A RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS, 

Spirit of Death J who rais r d thy vengeful arm, 
Against my fainting breast to shake thy dart,-— 

PoiFd is thy rage, and past thy dread alarm, 
For Heav'n. hath spar'd me, and my bounding 
heart 

Wakes to new life. Yet, 'midst the jovial strain 
Of health and joy, the tear will dew my cheek, 
For stern reflection to my soul will speak, 

And say, dire spirit, thou shalt come again. 

Again thou shalt assail this trembling frame, 
Seize the dropt dart, and hurl it to my breast, 

Quench with thy poisonous breath my vital flame,. 
And fold me in the grave's eternal rest. 

OM let my soul, in health's returning bloom, 

"Wean'd from the toys of time, prepare to meet her 
docm 



SONNET XL 

Thou who hast lov'd, in luxury of grief, 

To pause, at midnight, o'er the tear-bath'd tomb 
Of the lost friend, and sought a sad relief 

In the drear cloister's melancholy gloom ;- — 
Thy heart wiH throb in unison with mine, 

While to the mansions of the dead I go,-— 
O'er a lcv'd father's humble grave recline, 

Drop the fond tear, and heave the tender throe, 
Thrice-honour'd saint, if, from thy radiant sphere, 
Thou see'st thy child, a weary pilgrim here, 

If to thy thought my wants and woes are known, 
Oh ! through the cheerless wild my feet must tread s 
Guide my lone course, defend my hapless head, 

And fire my soul to virtues like thy own. 



SONNET XII. 
WRITTEN AT FRAMPTON UPON SEVERN, 

Frampton ! I love to stray thy meads along, — 

To mark the church-tow 'r, glimmering through 
the trees 
That skirt thy green, and catch the mellow song, 

Borne from yon woodlands by the perfum'd 
breeze. 
Now, rapt in musings, from some sloping mound, 

I watch the skiff on Severn's billowy tide,- — 
Trace the blue hills that lift their heads around, 

And count the herds that grace their verdant side* 
Sweet are thy charms, by lavish Nature given, 

Yet, lovely spot ! a prouder boast is thine ; 
For oft the Muses, at the close of even, 

Have warbled in thy grove their songs divine ; 
And while they breath 'd the strain with rapture 

fraught, 
Their sweetest lavs thv favour 'd Gardner taught ! 



££7 



SONNET XIII. 

AMBITION TRIUMPHANT OVER LOVE. 

No more, ye Deities of soft desire, 

With votive incense at your shrine I bow ; 
In other breasts illume your treacherous fire; 

For wisdom's manlier bliss I breathe my vow. 
Say, shall the soul, of godlike essence form'd, 

Pine with fond anguish in the bovv'r of Love ? 
Oh ! let me rise with holy transport warm'd, 

Spurn the vain lure, and seek my bliss above. 
The smiles of Beauty, and the songs of Mirth 

I leave, — to commune with the mighty dead ; 
Children of glory, sons of honour'd worth, — 

O'er my glad breast your kindling spirit shed. 
To Fame's bright steep my eager feet aspire : 
Farewell, ye Deities of soft desire i 



9 2 



£28 



SONNET XIV. 

Vain is th* impassion'd vow that Fancy breathes 
For happiness below. — The child of hope 
Awhile may saunter on the sunny slope, 

And twine the wild-flow'rs in fantastic wreaths ; 

Yet, ere he gains the mountain's arduous height, 
Nipt are their beauties by the chilling blast ; 
And thorny wilds, with labouring clouds o'ercast, 

Burst in dread horrors on his aching sight. 

Trill your gay songs, — exult in youthful prime., 
Ye sons of joy, and grasp the fleeting hour : — 
Soon shall ye feel oppression's ravenous power; 

Soon shall your visions fade, your transports die. 

Ah ! blest are they, who seek a happier clime, 

Nor trust the bliss that blooms beneath the sky. 



229 

SONNET XV. 
WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SIDE. 

Ye hoary cliffs, in awful grandeur pil'd, 

Ye rocks, that to the waves vour bosoms bare, 
'Mid the lone caverns of your peaceful wild, 

A weary wanderer seeks to hide his care. 
True, ye may frown obdurate on my cries, 

Yet more obdurate is the heart of man ; 
Your wandering herds are heedless of my sighs , 

But, ah ! more heedless is the human clan. 
Yet, O ye solitudes, your haunts among 

A respite from her pangs my soul may gain ; 
To answering waves she pours her plaintive song, 

Unvext by pride, and folly's taunting train : 
Your friendly tenants shall my griefs beguile ; 
No treachery lurks within their soothing smile. 



Q 3 



230 



SONNET XVI. 



Oh for some shadowy glen, some turf-built shed, 
On the dark bosom of the pathless waste, 
In whose lone haunts, with welcome horrorg 
grac'd, 

The child of grief may rest his aching head ! 

I ask not happiness, — ^illusive prize ! 
Yet, must I languish in eternal tears ? 
Must pining grief consume my transient years, 

And every gale be loaded with my sighs ? 

O Peace ! receive me to thy silent cell : 
There let my soul in stagnant ease recline : 
Round my pale brows thy soothing poppies twine, 

And each fond sense of grief or joy dispel : 

Too faithful Memory, bid thy forms depart ; 

And take, O treacherous Hope, thy visions from 
mv heart, 



SONNET XVII. 
THE THUNDER-STORM. 

See! the wild Tempest-Fiend through bursting 
clouds 
His fiery chariot wheels. — With thund'ring sound 
Rush the red bolts of vengeance, and around 

Terrific night the deathful triumph shrouds, 

Save where the lightning's flash with lurid gleams 
Gilds the wide waste. — The giddy and the gay 
Aghast may tremble, as they blithely stray 

Where pleasure lights their path with dazzling beams 

Of cloudless joyance. But / love to view 

This sweetly-mournful scene; yon whirlwind's 

boom 
Is music to my ear, and midnight's gloom 

More welcome than the landscape's brightest hue. 

For while my soul her blasted bliss bemoans, 

In unison with me Creation groans. 



e 4 



£32' 

SONNET XVIIL 

THE TEMPEST. 

The moaning winds are up: — with joyful eyes 
I view the black storm lowering o'er my head ; 
And, while the clouds their kindred horrors 
spread, 

Gaze with wild rapture on t\i embattled skies. 

All hail, ye warring tempests ! — -ye are dear 
To feelings such as mine.-^I love to pour, 
Symphonious with the torrent's turbid roar, 

My bitter sighs, and swell with many a tear 

The foaming surge.— Dark is yon mantling shade, 
Yet blacker is the gloom that shrouds my soul. 
Fierce are the whirlwinds that deform the pole, 

Yet fiercer storms- my fainting breast invade. 

Ah ! when shall Peace her healing beams display, 

Shine o'er my heart, and smile the storm away ? 



233 



SONNET XIX. 
FAITH. 

O life ! thou art a dreary waste, o'erspread 

With thorns and briers, and whelm'd in shades 
of death ; 
And, should a rose-bud rear its tender head, 

Tis wither'd by Oppression's poisonous breath. 
O'er thy polluted paths the sons of Time 

Their gloomy course beguile with plaintive cries : 
But who is she, that lifts her brow sublime, — 

Looks on the waste, and seems to grasp the skies ? 
T is Faith ! — I trace her light-encircled form, 

Her heav'n-directed eye, her cherub mien : 
Without a fear she views the low'ring storm, 

And treads without a sigh the baleful scene. 
Unmov'd she smiles at sorrow's darkest gloom* 
And sings of happiness — beyond the tomb. 



534 



SONNET XX. 

TO AFFLUENCE, 

Effulgent Goddess ! at whose gem - crowir d 
shrine, 

Rapt in wild dreams, contending suppliants fall ! 
No frequent votary to thy power divine, 

Now proffers at thy foot the fervent call. 
No sordid store, no pompous boon, I crave ; 

For well the groves and prattling streamlets 
know, 
My soul disdains ambition's venal slave, 

The hoards of avarice, and the lures of show. 
Come, Power benign! my bounded wish complete: 

Oh ! crown the vow by temper'd Reason formed ; 
Give me the rural cot, the calm retreat, 

With letter 'd ease and social bounty warm'd; 
Give me — enough to succour the distresr, 
Enough to render my Elmira blest. 



135 



SONNET XXL 



RESIGNATION. 



Ye, who have fAt affliction's searching fang, 
Oh! tell a wreich o'erwhelm'd by kindred woes, 
What charm can yield the grief-worn breast re- 
pose ? 
What balm can solace the corroding pang 
Of heart-consuming anguish ? Shall I seek 
The faithless scenes of pleasure as they fly ? 
Or shall the zephyrs of a distant sky 
Restore the roses to my faded cheek ? 
Vain wefe the thought. — O Pleasure, than the 
wind 
More fleet, more false, — thy charms no more I 
woo : 
My soul shall trust alone her Father, God. 
Here will I rest with holy hope resign'd, 

Till heav'n's full glories burst upon my view, 
And He, who scourg'd, remove the friendly 
rod. 



236 



SONNET XXII. 



TO HOPE. 



Ah visionary flatterer ! why delude 

My swelling fancy with thine airy dream : 
Why on my soul thy dazzling forms obtrude, 

Inconstant as the meteor's fleeting gleam ? 
Pair are thy phantoms as the changeful hues 

That lend their charms to heav'n's aerial bow ; 
Yet ah ! as transient are the lovely views, 

And short-liv'd rapture yields to lasting woe. 
Tir'd of thy treacherous lures, my rescu'd soul 

Mounts with strong faith beyond the sphere of 
time, 
And seeks th' eternal shore, where pleasures roll, 

And bliss shall flourish in immortal prime. 
Daughter of magic wiles, a long farewell ! 
On yonder starry plains my wishes dwell. 



237 

SONNET XXIII. 

YOUTHFUL EXPECTATION. 

Gay child of Hope ! unfurl thy flutt'ring sails — •'• 

Bid the bright streamer wanton in the breeze, 

And launch adventurous on th' unruffled seas, 

'Midst dancing sunbeams, and propitious gales ;— 

Yet oh ! — impatient voyager, beware. — 

Bright are thy prospects, cloudless are thy skies; 
But ah ! how soon devouring storms may rise, 
Yon broken rafts and shattered sails declare. 
Go, and be prosperous. May the sun of bliss 
Shine on thy course, and fav'ring zephyrs blow : 
But I too well the treacherous ocean know 
To quit my refuge for the vast abyss : 
Pleas'd I behold my weary wand'rings close, 
And bless th' Almighty arm that guides me to re- 
pose. 



23$ 

SONNET XXIV. 

THE HEAVENLY VISION. 



Ye spirits of the just, who circle round 

With everlasting lays your Father King ; 
And bid th' ecstatic lyre His glory sound, 

Till Heav'n's high concave with your praises 
ring,— 
Oft has my soul with holy rapture stray 'd, 

Entranc'd in visions, o'er your sapphire plains, 
Your bow'rs of bliss with ravish'd eye survey'd, 

And heard your sweet unutterable strains. 
Your ransom'd throng, array':! in robes of white, 

With mingling cherubs, fed my longing gaze, 
But ah ! for man too rapturous was the sight, 

And nature sunk in glory's dazzling blaze. 
I mourn to wake amidst a world of woe : — 
When shall I join the scenes your heav'nly visions 
show , ? 



£39 



SONNET NXV. 

WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF AN 
ABBEY. 



Ye rev'rend cloisters, o'er whose mouldering seats 
Celestial Peace her grey -plum'd wing displays^ — 
Deep to your lone recesses, from the blaze 

Of earthly pomp, my weary soul retreats. 

Bow'd by Oppression's rod, your kindred gloom 
Shall soothe my pining sorrows, and awhile 
Immortal hope the pangs of grief beguile. 

Here shall Reflection, on the moss-ciad tomb 

Leaning her pensive head, with piercing eye 
Gaze on the glories of th' eternal year, 
When heavenly hands shall wipe each starting- 
tear, 

And crown with pleasures that shall never die. 

She bids my soul her mortal cares dismiss, 

Rapt in the visioas of immortal bliss. 



£40 

SONNET XXVI. 

THE CELL OF PEACE. 

Ye scenes of earth-born pride, — a long farewell 2 
No more your phantoms shall my heart enslave; 
Oh ! take the grief-encircled joys ye gave, 
And let me linger in some lonely cell, 
Where yet the cherub Innocence may show 
Her spotless beauties, and seraphic Peace 
Bid the wild tumults of my soul to cease, 
.And wipe with lenient hand the tear of woe. 
And there, sweet soother of the wounded heart, 
Shall meek-ey'd Faith her healing balm apply: 
While Hope shall wave her fulgent torchon high, 
And, as the pageants of an hour depart, 
Shiill point to mansions of immortal rest, 
And wake the holy anthems of the blest. 



241 



SONNET XXVIL 

TO A FRIEND ON THE BANKS OF THE 
SEVERN. 

Within thy woodbin'd cot, on Severn's marge, 
In rural peace thou dwell'st. Thy moments glide 
With peaceful tenour, and the toys of pride 

Reach not thy cell. Yet should thy soul enlarge 

At Wealth's deceitful views ; should Glory's sound 
Wake the fond wish, or Grandeur prompt thy vow, 
Turn thy lone footsteps to yon mountain's brow, 

And mark the mingled scenes that spread around. 

There shalt thou view the streamlet's glassy wave 
Glad the fair vale, and flowVs adorn its verge ; 

There shalt thou see the distant ocean rave, 

And whelm the bark beneath its mad'ning surge ; 

Like the calm riv'let be thy tranquil life ; — 

More fierce than ocean's rage is pride's tumultuous 
strife. 






S42 

SONNET XXV1IL 

TO SORROW. 

And wilt thou come, O unrelenting power, 

Eternal partner of my dreary way ? 
And dost thou seek again my lonesome bower, 

Crush my fond hopes, and cloud my youthful day l 
Once more, with trembling eyes, thy well-known 
form 

I mark descending through the turbid air \ 
In darkness wrapt thou ridekt on the storm, 

With Sin thy parent, and thy child Despair. 
Yet though frail nature trembles at thy sight, 

Thou comest to my heart a friendly guest : 
? T is thine to chase the phantoms of delight, 

Mould the stern will, and cleanse the guilty 
breast. 
OK * banish from my thought the dreams of time. 
And point the sufferer to th' immortal clime! 



243 

SONNET XXIX. 

MIDNIGHT. 



? Tis midnight, and the ruthless wintry blast 

Howls o'er the fragments of the founder 'd bark ! 
See ! the swoln corses on the strand are cast, 
Hurl'd by the warring elements ; and hark ! 
; T is the wreck'd mariner's expiring shriek, 

Who grasp'd th' o'erhanging cliff with desp'rate 
force, 
Yet, while his feet some nook of shelter seek, 
Is buried in the wild wave's refluent course. 
Mourners ! who frame the fond lamenting tale 

O'er fancied evils, — look on real woe : 
What are the cares that prompt your tender wail, 
What, to the rending pangs that others know ? 
With grief like yours, the sufferers would be blest, 
And deem your sorrows bliss, your tumults rest. 



* S 



244 



SONNET XXX. 



TO AN AFFLICTED FRIEND. 



Yes, while thou ling'rest in thy tent of clay, 

Attendant on thy path Distress shall go j 
Yet weep not o'er the griefs that crowd thy way, 

For Wisdom dwells within the house of woe. 
The sneer of Pride, with Envy's harpy fang, 

The throes of baffled Hope, and slighted Love, 
Shall rive thy lab'ring breast with many a pang. 

Oh ! let them lift thy thoughts the earth above, 
Let the gay worldling mock thy plaintive sigh ; 
Yet there is One, whose ear attends thy cry ; 

His love shall guide thee, and his pow'r defend. 
Poor pilgrim ! cease thy visionary fears, 
Let holy rapture dry thy bitter tears : — 

The God of Mercy is thy faithful friend. 



245 

SONNET XXXI. 

A MORNING SKETCH. 



Bright Phosphor lingers in the red'ning sky 
And feather'd songsters hail the rising day ; 
The meadows laugh, with golden beauties gay, 

And russet hills rebound the reaper's cry. 

Hark ! t is the milkmaid chanting o'er her pail, 
The whistling ploughboy saunters through the 

shade, 
The fleecy charges deck the whitening glade, 

And sportive lambkins frisk along the vale. 

The vigorous team slow labours in the dell, 

While the shrill bells in mingled cadence sound, 
And there, remote from Fashion's giddy round, 

Sings the blithe shepherd, in his turf-built cell. 

Ye cities ! what can all your pomp afford, 

To vie with scenes like these, with spotless plea- 
sure stor'd ■ 



R 8 



U6 



SONNET XXX11. 



Sister belov'd ! if pure Affection's lay, 

Though short, an echo in thy heart may find, 
Accept the warm vows from a brother's mind 
Breath'd in a faithful strain, to greet the day 
That gave thee birth. To live in length en'd years 
I pray not for thee, for too well I know 
That Earth's most pleasant paths are paths of 
woe ; 
And soon each pilgrim's cheek is worn with tears : 
But this I pray, that holy Faith may raise 

Thy wishes from the world : how brief thy date 
It matters not, if Jesu's love create 
Thy ransom'd soul anew, and guide thy ways. 
Then may thy cares for earthly prospects end, 
Keav'n is thy home, thy Saviour is thy friend. 



247 

SONNET XXXIII. 

WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE. 



Here, from the scenes of pageant pride releas'd, 

Embower'd in bliss the rev 'rend Herbert dwells ; 
Quits the false earth, on heav'nly joys to feast, 

And seeks for Wisdom in her rural cells. 
Though void of burdening Wealth's redundant store, 

A frugal board his daily want supplies ; 
Unskill'd in Sophistry's deceitful lore, 

With humble Faith he rests, — divinely wise. 
So, when my social duties are discharg'd, 

No more on transitory cares intent ; 
Here let me rest, from earth-born toils enlarg'd, 

While Faith and Hope their healing balm present. 
Thus let my feet their destin'd circle run, — 
Life's noblest comforts share, — its deathful tumult 
shun, 



n 4 



248 



SONNET XXXIV. 
TO ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 

AUTHOR OF " THE FARMER'S BOY," &C. 8cC. 

Sweet poet of the mead ! whose artless muse, 

To Virtue sacred and to Genius dear, 
Rob'd the bright landscape in unfading hues, 

And sang the beauties of the varying year ; 
Long as the wild thrush carols through the wood, 

Long as the ploughshare cleaves th* indented lea, 
So long thy strains shall charm the wise and good, 

And Fame shall twine her fairest wreaths for thee. 
This be thy glory : — not that Nature's powers 

Thy fancy kindled at her sacred shrine ; — 
Not that she bade thee sirig her rosy bowers, 

And breath'd a soul along each flowing line:— 
But that, by Virtue^s holy flame rehVd, 
Ihy pages but reflect the beauties of thy mind* 



249 



SONNET XXXV. 

TO THE NAIADS OF THE LAKES IN 
CUMBERLAND. 



Ye nymphs, that skim along the silvery lakes, 

Where Skiddaw's hoary brow reflected shows, 
Say, can your lonesome dells, and flow'ry brakes, 

Yield a calm shelter from devouring woes ? 
Then would I raise my cot your streams beside, 

And wake the merry harp to love and joy ; — 
The scenes of grief Oblivion's veil should hide, 

And Hope's gay drtauis my roving thoughts 
employ. 
Yet stay, my fluttering heart ! — Beneath a sky 

More bright, more pure, my bounding feet may 
range : 
But canst thou from thyself, O wanderer ! fly ? 

Can fairer suns thy sinful nature change ? 
No more the chase of earth-born pleasures try ; 
Let all thy wishes centre in the sky. 



250 



SONNET XXXVI, 



When blushing Eve unveils the starry fires, 
As o'er the plains I roam with pensive eye, 
My fellow-swains, with taunting laughter, cry : 

" See the frail youth, whom ill-starr'd love inspires !" 

And many a sage with leaden tongue exclaims, 
" Fond swain ! the tyrant from thy breast repel : 
" Shun the dire shaft, — the deadly tumult quell, 

a And quench by Reason's pow'r the lurking 
flames." 

Yes ! my Elmira ! — to the sapient strain 

Which Reason pours, my duteous heart shall 

bow; 
For — -Reason smiles upon my tender vow, 

And firmer binds Affection's golden chain. 

Reason and Love to crown my choice agree ; 

I love with reason when I gaze on thee. 



m 



SONNET XXXVII. 

TO THE REV. J*** E***, OF YATTON, 
SOMERSETSHIRE. 

Where peaceful Yatton lifts her humble fane, 

Oft have I heard thy sweetly-pow'rful tongue 
In Virtue's path direct the rural train, 

While on thy voice persuasive Wisdom hung. 
Yet, while thy strains my pensive bosom warm'd, 

With fruitless grief I saw thy cultur'd mind, 
For crowded courts and peopled cities form'd, 

To the green hamlet's moss-crown'd cells con- 
fm'd. 
If lingering Health requires thy distant stay, 

Let other climes thy mental labours share, 
The beauteous transcript of thy soul convey, 

And bid thy pen Religion's notes prepare : 
These, when thy tongue shall moulder in the sod, 
Will guide the yielding heart — to Virtue and to 
God. 



2£S 

SONNET XXXVIIL 
TO IMAGINATION. 



Celestial visitant ! — whose magic wiles 

The wintry gloom with vernal flow'rs can dress; 
The tints of Mirth on Sorrow's cheek impress, 

Or deck with glowing scenes the midnight aisles ; 

Oh come ! refulgent in thy loveliest smiles ; 
This lowly cell with purest raptures bless : 
On this sad heart exert thy pleasing guiles, 

And cheer with sparkling scenes my lone recess. 

Farewell, ye charmless visions of renown ! 
For softer joys my chasten'd wishes burn ; 
One long-lov'd object to my soul restore ; 

With one dear form my silent wanderings crown, 
And bid her image to these vales return, 

Though envious Fate immures on Severn's 
joyless shore. 



253 



SONNET XXXIX. 



O lyre of Grief, o'er whose unballow'd strings, 
By Misery taught, my careless fingers stray'd : 
No more my soul invokes thy mournful aid, 

My voice no more its cheerless descant sings. 

Though still my heart thy sorrowing murmurs suit, 
How vain in fruitless agonies to pine ! 
Oh come, fond muse ! the plaintive harp resign, 

Try the shrill tabret, — ^wake the sounding lute. 

In vain thy note my sufferings would relieve, 
Yet ah ! one hope of happier scenes infuse ; 
For one short hour my shuddering heart amuse, 

And the sad sense of hagard woe deceive. 

Thus, for a while, the pangs of grief remove, 

Each care alleviate, and each bliss improve. 



254 



SONNET XL. 

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF 
WINTER. 

See ! to the busy town's discordant noise 

What giddy wanderers urge their idle flight ; 
For transient splendour leave perennial joys, 

And, grasping shadows, quit sincere delight. 
I envy not, fond crowd ! your gilded woe ; 

Be mine the pleasure Nature's charms impart : 
Hence your perfidious smile, and cumbrous show ; 

Be mine the joys that penetrate the heart. 
Though Plenty glads no more th' unbleating dale, 

How sweet th' encircled fire, — the social board ; 
To gather wisdom from the snow-clad vale, 

To share the bliss domestic scenes afford ; 
And, 'mid the rattling storm, and dreary gloom, 
Thy power, O Love ! can bid unfading flowrets 
bloom. 



Z55 



SONNET XIX 



WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, ON THE CON- 
CLUSION OF THE YEAR 1806. 



Heard ye the bell that echo'd through the bound: 

H ark ! — t is the knell of the departed year : 

Ye sons of earth ! its awful tidings hear ; 
For you the melancholy tidings sound. 
O Death ! what ruthless havoc hast thou made j 

Pierc'd by thy dart, what coimtiess myriads fall ? 

Now the lone shepherd hears thy dooming call, 
And now the monarch in the dust is laid. 

And ah ! ere Time renews the wintry gloom, 
/ too may slumber in the dreary tomb ; 

This heart may cease to throb, this pulse to beat. 
Father of Heav'n ! Thou know'st my future state ; 
Teach me to brave the frowns of angry fate, 

And Death himself with cheering hope to meet. 



£56 



SONNET XLII. 

TRANSLATION OF PETRARCH'S FORTY- 
THIRD SONNET. 



Yon tuneful nightingale, whose tender lay 

Her ravish'd young, a much-Iov'd mate bemoans, 
Soft as she trills her wild notes from the spray, 

Charms the lone valley with her soothing tones: 
And through the night she seems to share my woes, 
And mourn the kindred pangs that prompt my 
sigh ; 
Pangs that alone from emng Fancy rose, 

Which dreamt a goddess should the grave defy. 
How soon will Hope the slumb'ring heart surprise ! 
How could my soul believe those radiant eyes, 
Pure as the sun, should mingle with the clay ? 
At length the Fates my future doom reveal : 
Lifeless to live, and seeking death, to feel 

How transient earthly joys, how brief their 
stay ! 



257 



SONNET XLIII. 

TRANSLATION OF PETRARCH'S FORTY- 
FOURTH SONNET, 

Nor stars that roll on high their wand'ring train, 

Nor barks that glide along the glassy flood, 
Nor warriors, blazing on the tented plain, 

Nor deer, gay bounding thro' the gloomy wood, 
Nor tidings that delight the longing breast, 

Nor dulcet warblings of the love-tun'd lyre, 
Nor limpid founts, nor meads in verdure drest, 

Made vocal by the virgins beauteous quire, 
Nor aught besides my grief-worn heart can prize, 
Since she, the light and mirror of my eyes, 

Sleeps in the dust. By speechless woes impell'd, 
I call for Death, — blest bound'ry to my pain, 
Still panting to behold those charms again, 

Which, ah ! 't were best I never had beheld ! 



25S 



A FRAGMENT. 



Does Wisdom's lore inform the silver'd head r 
Does holy Truth the fireless heart control ? 

Does mellowing Time a sacred influence shed 
T' exalt the wishes, and transmute the soul ? 



See, in the chains of thoughtless Pleasure bound, 
What hoary myriads revel while they may, 

By lengthen'*! years with lengthen'd follies crown'd. 
Clinging to wretchedness with fond delay. 



By the wild glare of radiant phantoms lur'd, 
The w r anderer, man, their fleeting train pursues : 

Yet, when he deems the lovely forms secur'd, 
They vanish, like the rainbow's transient hues. 



259 



Proud of his little powers, he lifts to heaven 
The daring front, and sports his transient day : 

Heedless for what the span of life was given, 
How vast his duties, and how short his stay. 



He roves, all-playful, on Perdition's brink, 
Yet views no yawning precipice below ; 

He sees his comrades fall, yet scorns to shrink, 
And smiles at Justice and her menac'd blow. 



Yet soon the dream is o'er ;« — an angry God 
Curbs the vain rebel in his mad career : 

Crush'd is his pride beneath the scourging rod, 
And stretch'd his cold corpse on the gloomy bier. 



s 2 



<?60 



ELEGIAC STANZAS, 

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, 
AND INSCRIBED TO HER SISTER. 



Spirit ! who sittcst on the mould'ring piles 
Of the fall'n temple or disparted tower, 

Or wander 'st in the cloister's echoing aisles, 
Turning thy sand-glass at each passing hour j 



Queen of sad musings ! — to thy drear domain 
I come, where Sorrow guides my lonely way ; 

Where weeping Friendship breathes the mournful 
strain, 
Waves the dim torch, and points to Mary's clay. 



261 



In the dark vault she sleeps. — How vain the vows 
Breath'd by fond love to stay the fatal dart ! 

The dews of Death upon her lovely brows 
Are dried, and stiffeu'd is her guileless heart. 



As the fair blossom, on the vernal morn, 

Woo'd by the breeze, expands its trembling- 
flowers ; 

Yet, while its leaf the dewdrops still adorn, 
Some sweeping blast its orient bloom devours : 



So, in the tender pride of infant grace, 

She rose, while Hope her riper charms por- 
tray 'd, 
Pleas'd the young virtues of her soul to trace, 
Where Truth and Love their new-born smile 
display'd. 

s $ 



262 



But Hope was false, and stopt were Fancy's lays 
By the stern summons of relentless Death ; 

Swift at his voice the lurking poison strays 

Through each wan limb, and checks her flut- 
t'ring breath. 



Thou soul of infant excellence, farewell ! 

Farewell, lov'd sister of my heart's best friend ! 
My feet shall seek with hers thy silent cell, 

My heart with hers its mutual sorrow blend. 



When evening's rays depart, our hands shall bring 
Fresh flowrets, bath'd in dew, to deck thy tomb ; 

And the nipt rose-buds of the virgin spring 

(Emblems of thee ! ) shall join their soft perfume. 



And dove-ey'd Innocence, thy faithful guide, 
And Meekness, ruler of thy gentle heart; 

Lighted by Love, their steps shall thither guide, 
While from their breast the sighs of pity start. 



£63 



Vet why for thee should plaintive accents flow ? 

From the bright mansions of the starry spheres. 
In bowers of bliss, thou look'st on mortal woe., 

And wonder'st at affection's fruitless tears. 



Yes, Mary, thou art blest : my kindling soul 
Thy joyful seat with envious eye surveys ; 

No more for thee shall Pity's murmurs roll, 
But for myself prolong her plaintive lays. 



Rest, happy spirit ! thou hast reach'd thy home ; 

'Tis thine no more to bear the shocks of fate,; 
We, who remain in future scenes to roam, 

Are but the pilgrims of a longer date. 



And why should life provoke the lingering sigh ? 
Swift as the lightning's gleam our youth shall 
fleet, 
And dim Decrepitude, with beamless eye 

And nerveless hand, shall reign in manhood's seat. 
s 4 



264 



Then happiest they, whose path is soonest o'er : 
For earth's most pleasant paths are strew'd with 
grief; 

And the tir'd wanderer lives. but to explore 

How vain are mortal pleasures, and how brief! 



What though with glittering hoards our coffers groan, 
What though the smiles of Pomp our fancy warm, 

Though radiant Fashion mark us for her own, 
And vary at our nod her Proteus form : 



What though Renown, to spread our boasted praise, 
Loud o'er the earth her brazen trumpet sound ;. 

Rear the proud bust, and give th' unfading bays 
By Glory's fingers on our temples bound : 



In the dark precincts of the final bourne, 

E'en the sweet flow'rs of hallow'd Love must fade, 

The pride of Grandeur fall, and Glory mourn 
Her trophies moulder'd, and her crowns decay 'd. 



Soon, Mary, shall the howling night-blast sweep 
O'er him, who pours this pensive song to thee ; 

Beneath some flow'ry tuft his bones shall sleep, 
Borne to the grave across his fav'rite lea* 



She too, thy weeping sister, who remains, 

Spar'd by kind Heav'n, the partner of my way ; 

With Love's responsive throb to soothe my pains, 
Cheer my still course, and brighten Pleasure's ray : 



She too, ah me ! in Death's cold arms must lie, 
The worm must revel on her smiling cheek, 

And sunk and hollow be the sparkling eye, 

Where tender Love and generous Virtue speak. 



But the drear path our feet so soon shall tread, 
Thy feet have trodden, and its terrors known; 

Thy spotless heart has, with no guilty 7 dread, 
Felt the last pang, and heav'd the parting moan. 



266 



Ne'er at thy head her shafts shall Malice aim, 
Nor at thy bosom dart her scorpion sting ; 

Detraction shall not blast thy budding fame, 
Nor scatter mildews from her poisoned wing. 



Thou shalt not feel Affection's hapless doom, 
O'erwhelmM by pining grief through long-drawn 
years ; 
Nor see thy cheek, in vigour's rip'ning bloom, 
By Sorrow blanch'd, like mine, and worn with 
tears. 



To Him that sitteth on th' eternal throne, 
Begin, pure spirit, thine unceasing lays ; 

He freed thy soul from earth, ere taught to groan. 
Ere torn thy feet by Sorrow's thorny ways. 



Oh for an angeFs wing to speed my flight 
High o'er the atmosphere's polluted bound ; 

That I might tread your walks of rich delight, 
And stray your star-bespangled plains around ! 



267 



Then should my longing soul, O bliss supreme ! 

Your God and King with prostrate awe survey, 
With saints and angels chant the hallow'd theme, 

And at His foot my feeble tribute lay. 






ESSAYS 



VACCINATION. 



The following Essays appeared in the Gentleman's 
Magazine for September, and the following months, 
at the close of the year 1808, and the commencement 
of 1809. They were undertaken by Worgan on his 
suggestion of the utility of disseminating a knowledge 
of the benefits to be derived from the important dis- 
covery of his Patron, and of meeting the common 
objections to it in some popular periodical work. 
They were the result of his own reading and unbiassed 
consideration of the subject. 



ESSAYS ON VACCINATION. 



ESSAY THE FIRST, 



W hen the happy exertions of genius or in- 
dustry have succeeded in completing important 
discoveries, a considerable period must generally 
elapse before the real value of these discoveries 
can be duly appreciated. On their first pro- 
mulgation, the truth is liable to be obscured, 
both by the misguided enthusiasm of their honest 
advocates, and also by the violent malevolence of 
interested opponents. The dispassionate and pe- 
netrating mind may indeed, at all times, discri- 
minate between reality and misrepresentation ; but 
to convince the multitude is no easy task. The 
generality of the world are far more influenced hy 
ridicule than by reason. Scurrility and invective 



carry greater weight than solid arguments ; and 
vulgar jokes are more forcible than irrefutable 
facts. The most beneficial inventions are hence 
retarded in their progress, and the vilest impos- 
tures are not unfrequently received with the 
warmest encouragement. 

These observations have been occasioned by 
the consideration of the rise and progress of a 
modern discovery, which has justly excited an 
unexampled interest. I allude to the system of 
Inoculation for the Cow-Pox, which Dr. Jenner 
introduced into the world. The merits of this 
discovery have been discussed with an earnestness 
and solicitude proportionate to its confessed im- 
portance ; and innumerable publications have ap- 
peared on the subject. The advocates of Vacci- 
nation have exulted in the prospect of extermi- 
nating the Small-Pox from the face of the earth ; 
while its opponents have framed their tales of 
horror, replete with stories of novel diseases and 
unheard-of plagues. So much had been said, so 
much had been written, on both sides of the 
question, that the subject was involved in an 
almost impenetrable mist. At this time the Re- 
ports of the Royal Colleges of Physicians and 
Surgeons opportunely appeared ; and these, united 
with- the second Remuneration of Dr. Jenner, 
might reasonably have been expected to settle the 



973 

public opinion. Still, however, objections to the 
Vaccine Practice are raised ; there are still some 
who doubt the propriety of adopting it. 

When I consider the many evidences in favour 
of Vaccination, which the public documents of 
almost every nation affi)rd, I am at a loss to con- 
ceive from what cause such doubts can have 
arisen ; for I think, if an unprejudiced mind will 
fairly consider the question, it must be convinced 
that Vaccination has answered the promised end. 
As this is not a topic of barren speculation, but 
one with which the dearest interests of our nature 
are connected, I should like, Mr. Urban, through 
the medium of your valuable miscellany, occasion- 
ally to make a few remarks upon it. I am con- 
nected with no party ; I am influenced by no pre- 
judice. I promise, in all the strictures with which 
I may trouble you, to abstain from ail personality, 
and to consider the subject in a cool, dispassionate 
manner, desirous alone to detect imposture, and 
to establish truth. The principal points to be 
discussed are these : 

I. Whether Vaccination is a preservative from 
the Small-Pox? 

II. Whether it excites any othsr diseases in the 
constitution, or entails any new maladies? 

IIL Whether, ita the present improved state of 
T 



274 ■ 

Small-Pox Inoculation, any substitute is neces- 
sary cr expedient f 

And it may not be amiss to add a word or twa 
respecting the alleged bestiality of the matter 
employed in Vaccine Inoculation, and the sup- 
posed difficulty of ascertaining the characters of 
the genuine Vaccine vesicle. I do not pretend to 
have any thing new to say on these subjects j yet, 
if I can arrange old ideas in a succinct and lumi- 
nous manner, my observations may not be unac- 
ceptable to your readers. 

" Is Vaccination a preservative from the Small- 
Pox?" 

It would be impossible to answer this inquiry 
in a more forcible and satisfactory manner, than 
by making an extract from a recent publicatioti 
on this subject, by the very ingenious Dr. Scully, 
^fTotness, in Devonshire : 

" In the first place, of several thousand per- 
sons,, who, after having passed regularly through 
the Cow-Fox, have been purposely inoculated for 
the Small-Pox, and exposed to its contagion, 
under every conceivable circumstance of aggrava- 
tion, not a single instance has occurred of Vac- 
cination having failed to afford a complete security 
against the Small-Pox, even after an interval of 
forty, fifty, or sixty years* 



'*' Secondly, the instances in which it is asserted 
that Vaccination did fail to afford the desired se- 
curity, occurred not in the practice of able or 
experienced Inoculators, who have vaccinated the 
greatest numbers, nor within the knowledge of 
any physician or surgeon eminent for professional 
skill t>r general talent ; but uniformly to those 
very persons, who opposed the practice before 
any failures could have existed, and when every 
known fact was favourable ; who decried Vacci- 
natiou among all their acquaintances ; who never 
adopted it, and consequently have seen little of 
the practice ; or to country practitioners, whose 
opportunities of observation are very precarious. 

" Thirdly, almost every one of those cases 
which have been published, of Small-Pox suc- 
ceeding to perfect Vaccination* has been actually 
found to have been either misrepresented or mis- 
conceived. It has appeared that they were either 
cases in which there never zcas genuine Cone- Pox 
at first, or cases in which there never was genuine 
Small -Pox at last. 

u And, on the whole, admitting for a moment 
that a few cases have actually been seen of Small- 
Pox after perfect Vaccination, it is to be ob- 
served, that they are not more numerous than 
those of Small-Pox occurring a second time iv. lae, 
same person, of which there are many distinct 
t2 



276 " 

Instances upon record, each of them far more 
completely authenticated than any one that has- 
yet been produced by the enemies of Vaccination ; 
and it appears that there have been already nearly 
as many persons vaccinated in this kingdom, as 
ever were inoculated for the Small-Pox." 

These arguments might easily be amplified; 
but, of themselves, they are conclusive and irre- 
fragable ; yet it may not be amiss, in confirma- 
tion, to adduce an epitomized account of the 
opinions of the principal medical hodies, both in 
this country and in the other nations of Europe, 
upon the subject. So much, however, for the 
present. By your permission, Mr. Urban, I shall 
trouble you with a series of Essays in continua- 
tion, for the succeeding numbers of your Ma- 
gazine. 

Cosmopolitism 



277 



ESSAY THE SECOND. 



MR. URBAN, 

In the conclusion of my paper on th^ 
merits of Vaccination, which appeared in the last 
number of your Magazine, a few arguments and 
observations were adduced in reply to the inquiry, 
whether Vaccination affords a proper security 
from the Small-Pox? The facts which were 
there mentioned, must of themselves be nearly 
sufficient to convince an unprejudiced observer of 
the efficacy of the Vaccine preservative. It now 
remains to take an impartial review of the re- 
maining part of the evidence on this interesting 
topic, which may be gathered from the experience 
of eminent individuals, and from the avowed 
opinion of public bodies. 

First, then, let us hear the evidence afforded 
by the experience of eminent individuals. It is 
not from dabblers in medicine; it is not from those 
who condemn any innovation in medical practice, 
■without giving it a trial, that we are to expect to 
derive the information which is necessary for the 
purpose of enabling us to form a decided opinion 
'V5 



on the merits of any discovery. We must look 
up to those alone, whose knowledge is too ex- 
tensive to allow them to be the dupes of impose 
ture, whose characters stand too high for any one 
to suspect them of dissimulation, and whose in- 
dependence raises them superior to any control 
which might arise from indigence or servility. 
Men of this description have the best opportu^ 
nities of ascertaining the truth, and will be most 
likely to make a disinterested avowal of it. By 
men of this description the Vaccine has been put 
to the severest trial ; and the residt of their in-? 
vestigations, which has frequently been given to 
the world, may justly claim a degree of universal 
confidence. 

It would be an endless task to enumerate the 
particulars of individual experience. Suffice it 
to say, that professional gentlemen of the highest 
respectability have published accounts* of the 
inoculation of some hundreds of thousands of 
patients with the Vaccine, zcithout a single in- 
stance of failure, I have heard that Dr. Jenner 
has vaccinated an immense number of subjects 

* A detailed account of the numbers successfully 
vaccinated by many medical gentlemen, and others, 
may be found in Mr. Pruen's " Comparative Sketch of 
the Variolous and Vaccine Inoculations V 



279 

•with his own hand during an uninterrupted prac- 
tice of ten years ; and though I have been very 
particular in my inquiries respecting the result, I 
have never heard of a single instance in which any 
of his patients were subsequently affected w ith the 
Small-Pox. I have seen accounts, which proceed 
from the best authorities, of the Vaccination of 
some millions on the continent of Europe, in our 
East Indian settlements, and in almost every 
corner of the civilized world. But as Englishmen 
will naturally repose more implicit confidence ia 
facts which occur within their own shores, and of 
the truth or falsehood of which they may, if they 
please, be convinced by ocular demonstration, I 
shall confine myself chiefly to the evidence of 
English practitioners, I should be sorry to be 
suspected of attaching undue belief to the pub- 
lications of the friends of Vaccination, or of 
entertaining improper doubts of the accuracy of 
the statements of its opponents. Yet I cannot 
think that the assertions of a few individuals, zcho 
avow that they never practised Vaccination, can 
be put into competition with the assertions of the 
host of medical men, who have made Vaccination 
a principal object of their attention, and who, 
when they declare that it does afford a complete 
security (of course, when duly conducted) against 
the Variolous infection, speak altogether from 
T 4 



280 

their own experience, and assert nothing but what 
they are ready to prove by indisputable facts, 
which have occurred under their own eyes. But 
it is an insult to the understanding to urge these 
arguments any farther. 

So much for the evidence of individuals. Now 
let us hear the opinions of public bodies. Indi- 
viduals may be influenced by prejudice, interest, 
or partiality : but in a large society, consisting of 
independent, scientific men, no such influence can 
possibly prevail. For the reason I before as- 
signed, I shall not adduce the opinions of foreign 
societies : we must of course prefer the verdict of 
our own countrymen. What then is the opinion 
of the Royal College of Physicians of London, 
than which the earth does not contain a more re- 
spectable medical body ? 

" The security derived from Vaccination against 
the Small- Pox, if not absolutely perfect, is as 
nearly so as can perhaps be expected from any 
human discovery ; for amongst several hundred 
thousand cases, with the results of which the 
College have been made acquainted, the number 
of alleged failures has been surprisingly small, so 
much so, as to form certainly no reasonable ob- 
jection to the general adoption of Vaccination ; 
for it appears that there arte not nearly so many 



25! 

failures, in a given number of vaccinated persons, 
as there are deaths in an equal number of persons 
inoculated for the Small-Pox. Nothing can more 
dearly demonstrate the superiority of Vaccination 
over the Inoculation of the Small-Pox, than this 
consideration ; and it is a most important fact, 
which has been confirmed in the course of this 
inquiry, that in almost every case, where the 
Small-Pox has succeeded Vaccination, -whether 
by Inoculation or by casual infection, the disease 
has varied much from its ordinary course ; it has 
neither been the same in the violence nor in the 
duration of its symptoms ; but has, with very few 
exceptions, been remarkably mild, as if the S mall- 
Pox had been deprived, by the previous Vaccine 
disease, of all its usual malignity. 

" It has been already mentioned, that the evi- 
dence is not universally favourable, although it is 
in truth nearly so, for there are a few who enter- 
tain sentiments differing widely from those of the 
great majority of their brethren. The College, 
therefore, deemed it their duty, in a particular 
manner, to inquire upon what grounds and evi- 
dence the opposers of Vaccination rested then- 
opinions. From personal examination, as well as 
from their writings, they endeavoured to learn the 
full extent and weight of their objections. Thej 



2S2 

found them without experience in Vaccination, 
supporting their opinions by hearsay information 
and hypothetical reasoning ; and, upon investi- 
gating the facts which they advanced, they found 
them to be either misapprehended or misrepre- 
sented." 

The same sentiments, under different words, 
have been expressed by the other Colleges of 
Physicians and Surgeons in the United Kingdom. 
But, of all their Reports, none appears to me to 
be so clearly favourable to Vaccination, as that of 
the Royal College of Surgeons of London. This 
learned body had received an account of one hun- 
dred and sixty-four thousand three hundred and 
eighty-one cases of Vaccination. In this number 
fifty-six cases are stated to have occurred in which 
the Small-Pox followed. So that there is only 
one instance of failure in almost three thousand 
cases ; and this, observe, necessarily including the 
result of the practice in its very infancy. Now 
if we take three thousand hens, and put them to 
sit upon their eggs, I rather suspect that more 
than one of them might not succeed in hatching : 
yet, would any man thence assert, from such a 
deviation, that the hen does not possess the power 
of hatching I It is equally absurd to assert that 
Vaccination does not afford a security from the 



mi 

Small-Pox, because, among the multitudes that 
have been vaccinated, its security may, in a few 
instances, have occasionally failed. 

I have not hastily adopted these sentiments, 
At the first promulgation of the Vaccine discovery, 
I regarded it as something on the same footing 
with the Cordial Balm of G Head, the Restora- 
tive Drops, 8cc. Sec. It was not till after this 
most scrupulous inquiry, which I made with a 
most prejudiced mind, that I could be induced to 
believe Vaccination to be what its friends de~ 
scribed it. Obstinate, however, as my prejudice? 
against it confessedly were, they were shortly dis- 
pelled by the accumulating facts which continually 
appeared in its favour, if contrary evidence, of 
equal force and authenticity, can be adduced, I 
shall at all times be open to conviction, and ready 
to renounce my present sentiments. But, till 
such evidence shall have been adduced, I must 
maintain my opinion, that no reasonable man can 
for a moment doubt the efficacy of the security 
which Vaccination affords. But there is another 
point to be discussed, which is, " Whether Vac- 
cination entails any novel diseases on the coiistitn- 
tion?" 

COSMOPOLITOS. 



284 

P. S. I had nearly forgotten to notice a curious 
apprehension, expressed by one or two writers 
on Vaccination, viz. " That its preserving qua- 
lities might decay in the course of time, and that, 
in a few years, the constitution might again 
become susceptible of the Small-Pox." I will 
not take up time in showing how unpbysiolo- 
gical such an argument is, and how directly con- 
trary to the laws of pathology. I shall content 
myself by observing, that it is refuted by matter 
of fact; since there are many persons now living 
of a great old age, who were infected with the 
Cow-Pox in their youth, and who have invariably 
resisted every attempt to communicate the Small- 
Pox to them, though the attempts were con- 
ducted in every way that human ingenuity could 
Revise. 



£S5 



ESSAY THE THIRD. 

The next point which I proposed to con- 
sider in discussing the merits of Vaccination is, 
zvhether it excites any other diseases, or entails 
any new maladies on the constitution. However 
complete might be the security from the Small- 
Pox which Vaccination affords, — however confi- 
dently we might hope to see the Variolous con- 
tagion at length exterminated by its agency,-— 
still, if it occasioned any novel affections in 
the constitution, the remedy might be worse 
than the disease. As this is the most popular ar- 
gument against Vaccination, it will demand our 
particular attention. As I am not of the medical 
profession, I shall not presume to speak of my 
own authority on a subject purely medical. My 
object shall be to collect and balance the opinions 
of those whose professional knowledge and expe- 
rience enable them to speak with confidence, and 
entitle their authority to universal respect. 

If the Cow-Pox be productive of new diseases, 
we might naturally expect to find those diseases 
most prevalent in those parts of the country where 
the Cow-Pox is most frequently to be found. In 



no district of the British dominions, or, perhaps 
of the world, has the Vaccine disease so often oc-^ 
curred, as in Gloucestershire. Yet Mr. Trye, . 
F. R. S. who has long been senior Surgeon to the 
Gloucester Infirmary, declares, that s< a more 
healthy description of human beings does not exist, 
nor one more free from chronic cutaneous im- 
purities, than that which suffers most from Co\y- 
Pox, by reason of their being employed in the 
dairies;'' that, " since the establishment of the In- 
firmary, many hundreds among the labouring 
people have had the natural or accidental Cow-- 
Pox, which has been prevalent in that county 
from time immemorial" — " and yet not a single pa- 
tient, in half a century, has applied to the In- 
firmary for relief of any disease, local or constitu- 
tional, which he or she imputed or pretended to 
trace to the Cow-Pox." So unequivocal a de- 
claration, from so high authority, must, I think, 
remove every apprehension of diseases arising from 
the natural Cow- Pox. With respect to its effects 
when communicated by inoculation, we have 
quite as satisfactory declarations from still higher 
authorities. 

The Report of the Committee of the House of 
Commons on Dr. Jenner's Petition, in 1802, ex- 
pressly states that the " Vaccine Inoculation doe* 



£87 

not excite other humours or disorders in the con- 
stitution." 

The Report of the Royal College of Physicians 
of London informs us, that a the testimonies be- 
fore the College are very decided in declaring, that 
Vaccination does less mischief to the constitution, 
and less frequently gives rise to other diseases, 
than the Small-Pox, either natural or inoculated. 
The College feel themselves called upon to state 
this strongly, because it has been objected to Vac- 
cination that it produces new, unheard-of, and 
monstrous diseases. Of such assertions no proofs 
have been produced ; and, after diligent inquiry, 
the College believe them to have been either the 
inventions of designing, or the mistakes of ignorant 
men." 

Fom the Report of the Royal College of Sur- 
geons of Edinburgh, we learn that " the members 
of the College have met with no occurrence in 
their practice of Cow-Pox Inoculation, which 
could operate in their minds to its disadvantage ; 
and they beg leave particularly to notice, that 
they have seen no instance of obstinate eruptions, 
or of new and dangerous diseases, which they 
could attribute to the introduction among man- 
kind of this mild preventive of Small-Pox." 

After testimonies of so decided a nature front 
public bodies, it would be superfluous, Mr. 



£88 

Urban, to occupy your pages by adducing the 
testimonials of individual practitioners. Yet 1 
cannot refrain from inserting the opinion of Dr. 
Willan, — a gentleman, of whom Dr. Scully 
justly observes, that his " powers and oppor- 
tunities of observation respecting all complaints 
of the skin, are unrivalled, and that his opinion 
upon such subjects is looked up to by the whole 
medical faculty of Europe." 

Dr. Willan asserts : 

First, That " no new diseases have appeared 
since the introduction of Vaccination." 

Secondly, That " the old cutaneous complaints 
of the metropolis have not become more frequent 
or inveterate." 

Thirdly, That " the children of the poor are 
not affected with glandular swellings immediately 
after Vaccine Inoculation, as they frequently are, 
after the Small-Pox, Measles, and Scarlatina 
angi?iosa. n 

There are some parts of medical science, with 
which it is the duty of every man to be somewhat 
acquainted, and of which an unpractised individual 
can form a tolerably competent judgment. To 
those, however, who, without proper knowledge, 
meddle with those subjects in medicine, correct 
information upon which can be derived from prac- 
tice and personal experience alone, the proverbial 



£89 

caution may in general be applied, Ne sutor ultra 
crepidam. From a consciousness of this, J shall 
refrain from making any remarks on this branch of 
the Vaccine question, lest I should injure a cause 
which I wish to support. In corroboration, how- 
ever, of the testimonials which I have already 
quoted, I shall take the liberty of extracting a few 
paragraphs from the publication of Dr. Scully, to 
which I have more than once alluded, and which 
reflects equal honour on him as a physician and as 
a man. 

After quoting a multitude of public and private 
opinions, Dr. Scully thus proceeds : " Now what 
is opposed to this mass of clear, strong, and satis- 
factory evidence ? The contradictory assertions of 
a few individuals, and the vage speculations of 
others. Instances are adduced of children having 
eruptive complaints after tfiey had had the .Cow- 
Pox ; as if it were a matter of course, that since 
they succeeded to, they must have been occasioned 
by, Vaccination. It would be about as rational to 
argue that gout is produced by Small-Pox, the 
heat of summer by the cold of winter, death by 
marriage, storms by calms, or any event whatever 
by any other which preceded it. It should not be 
forgotten that children of all ages are extremely 
liable to cutaneous complaints ; in some families 
they are hereditary ; and the slightest error in re- 
V 



290 

gard to diet, 8cc. will frequently produce them iu 
children, whose parents were altogether free from 
them."—" This would be the proper place (con- 
cludes Dr. Scully) to expose the afflicting conse- 
quences of the Small-Pox, natural or inoculated ; 
but rather than count over the several permanent 
injuries and hideous deformities which it occasions, 
I would leave the reader to the evidence of hi* 
own senses and observation. To describe in de- 
tail the various disfigurations and deformities of 
person, the incurable ulcerations, scrofulous com- 
plaints, glandular affections, &c. 8cc. produced or 
engendered by the Small-Pox, would be painful 
to the feelings of many, and could be gratifying ta 
none. I leave the subject to the reader's cool 
contemplation." 

These arguments I collect, for the purpose of 
placing in one point of view the principal evidence 
on this important topic. They are so full, that 
I think they must convince the most prejudiced, 
and satisfy the most timid and credulous. 

It is my intention in my next paper to discuss 
the question, " Whether r in the present improved 
state of Small-Pox Inoculation, any substitute 
he necessary or expedient" 

COSMQTOXITOS, 



291 



ESSAY THE FOURTH, 

#R. URBAN, 

In my former Essays, I have endeavoured 
to lay before your readers a summary review of 
the principal evidence of the merits of Vaccina- 
tion ; and the facts which I impartially adduced^ 
must, I think, be more than sufficient to convince 
every candid observer, that the Cow- Pox inocula- 
tion, when properly conducted, does afford an ef- 
fectual and permanent security against the va- 
riolous contagion, and that it excites no new dis- 
eases, and produces no injurious effects upon the 
constitution. Having established these important 
points, it might be conceived that the discussion of 
the subject was ended ; and it might be expected 
that mankind would universally concur in eagerly 
embracing the mild and safe preservative which is 
offered them against a disease, that has long 
been one of the sorest scourges of the human 
race. There is a popular argument, however, 
not unfrequently urged by those who are not 
avowed opponents of Vaccination, the insidious 
nature of which is calculated to produce con* 
,*iderable injury, by delaying the progress of th§ 
v % 



292 

hew inoculation. Upon this argument I beg leafs 
at present to offer a tew remarks. 

We allow, it has been said, that Vaccination 
may generally afford security from the future in- 
fection of the Small-Pox, and we should be re- 
luctant to oppose the high authorities that sup- 
port the practice : but we think that a sufficient 
time has not elapsed since the promulgation of the 
discovery, to enable the public to form a decided 
opinion of its merits. At the same time, we all 
know that the Small-Pox has been greatly miti- 
gated by the present improved method of inocula- 
tion, under which not more than one in three hun- 
dred dies. Why then, should we forsake a cer- 
tainty to adopt an uncertainty? Why should we 
relinquish a system of inoculation, the benefits 
of which we have evinced by the experience of a 
century, to embrace a new system, in which we 
have had comparatively little experience ? 

The objection, that sufficient time has not been 
allotted to put the efficacy of Vaccination to the 
test, must have arisen from a want of information 
on the nature of the disease. Mankind are in- 
debted to the genius and industry of Dr. Jenner, 
for the idea of propagating the Vaccine infection 
from one human being to another, by means of 
inoculation; and, certainly ten years only have 
passed, since he made public his discovery. But 
4 



29S 

But it must be remembered, that, though the Inocu- 
lation of the Cow-Pox is a novel practice, yet the 
disease, in its natural state, has been known for 
time immemorial, and its power of preventing the 
Small-Pox has long been acknowledged. There 
are many well-authenticated instances upon record 
of persons who are affected with the casual Cow- 
Pox*" in their youth, to whom the Small-Pox 
could never afterwards be communicated, either 
by Inoculation or Contagion ; and who lived to 
an advanced old age, in the most perfect health, and 
completely secure from the Variolous Infection. 
It must be unnecessary to inform any one, who 
has the smallest acquaintance with the laws of 
physiology, that the Vaccine matter, after pass- 
ing successively from arm to arm through a thou- 
sand subjects, is precisely the same, in all its 
parts, as when originally taken from the cow. 
The Vaccine, therefore, has in reality undergone 
as long a trial as the Small-Pox Inoculation itself. 
In those districts where it is most accustomed to 
prevail, the " Vox Populi," for nearly a century, 
has borne witness to its affording a full security 



* Dr. Jenner, in his first publication on the subject, 
gives instances of its preservative effects to the extended 
period of fifty-one years. 

u 3 



294 

from the Small-Pox, and its effects have ever 
been considered as rather beneficial than injurious 
to the constitution. On no subject, therefore, 
can our evidence be more complete, and more 
firmly established ; and so far from there being a 
necessity for further time to form a proper opi- 
nion on its merits, it has the testimony of time 
and experience, in the fullest degree, to sup- 
port it. 

Having endeavoured to obviate this plausible 
objection, it remains to inquire whether, in the 
present improved state of Small-Pox Inoculation, 
any substitute is necessary or expedient ? If the 
welfare of the individuals inoculated were exclu- 
sively to be considered, I should attach but little 
importance to the Vaccine practice. But we 
must bear in mind, that it is not merely the de- 
crease of danger and suffering, on the part of 
those inoculated with Vaccine matter, as com- 
pared with those inoculated in the former way, 
that constitutes the great advantage of Vaccina* 
tion. It is the singular and invaluable circum- 
stance of no contagion being thereby communi- 
cated to others. The Variolous Inoculation, it 
is true, nearly secures those to whom it is ap- 
plied ; yet it continues for ever to keep open the 
source of danger to others. An individual may 
undergo the Small-Pox, so as not to suffer any 



295 

material inconvenience ; yet he necessarily must 
'communicate the contagion to some of those with 
whom he associates. They, in the habits of ne- 
cessary and ordinary intercourse, may communi- 
cate it to others ; and thus the most fatal of dis- 
orders may be disseminated, in a manner the 
consequences of which it is impossible to calcu- 
late. This is the reason why the mortality occa* 
-sioned by the Small-Pox has been greater since 
the introduction of Inoculation than it was before^ 
The mitigation of the disease has universally di- 
minished the caution with which it was formerly 
avoided. Hence it arises, that the practice of 
Inoculation, which has prevailed among the higher 
and middle classes of society, has diffused the na* 
tural disease more widely among the lower orders, 
whose determination to live and die in their own 
way, according to the customs of their great- 
grandfathers, has rendered them almost insupe- 
rably averse to adopt -the lenient means of remov- 
ing or alleviating disease, which are afforded by 
modem improvements in medical science, and 
which the many absurdly denominate unuatural 
or artificial disorders. 

There is an Institution in this metropolis, esta- 
blished for the Inoculation of the Small-Pox, the 
founders of which were undoubtedly actuated by 
motives which cannot be too highly applauded 

13 4 



296 

It was the practice, till within the last few 
months, to inoculate out-patients there, to the 
amount of two thousand annually ; and it was 
usual for these out-patients to resort twice a week 
to the hospital, to be inspected by the surgeon. 
These, as they passed through the streets, must 
of course have spread the contagion on every side. 
I rejoice to find, that a stop has at length been 
put to this unjustifiable practice ; and the intro- 
duction of a Bill into Parliament during the last 
session, to regulate and limit the Variolous Ino- 
culation throughout the British empire, is a most 
auspicious circumstance, winch must afford sincere 
delight to every one who has the welfare of the 
human race at heart. Whether it be warrantable 
to continue the Small-Pox in any shape or form 
whatever, when we have in our hands the means 
of totally preventing it, I must leave to the de- 
termination of those who are better versed in po- 
litical economy. As, however, it is a subject of 
universal interest, and as the propriety of legisla- 
tive interference has been a matter of much dis- 
cussion, I shall heg leave to make a few remarks 
upon it in my next Essay. 

From the whole of these considerations it 
must, I think, appear, that even if the Inoculated 
Small-Pox were never fatal, a non-contagious 
substitute for it would be of the highest public 



297 

importance, in order that the diffusion of the dis- 
ease in the natural way might be prevented. In 
this, then, the distinguishing excellency of the 
Vaccine discovery consists ; on this its more for- 
cible claim to public patronage is founded. Its 
constant mildness is a point of great importance 
with respect to individuals ; but when the social 
interests of populous empires are taken into the 
account, its benefits are inestimable. Were its 
advantages to extend no farther, how important 
would they be to those who are engaged in our 
naval and military service ! " Not a soldier/' 
General Tarleton observed in the House of Com- 
mons, " need be left in the barracks during the 
process of Vaccination ; but they can, without 
the least inconvenience, move from place to 
place, just as if they were under no process what- 
soever. They are also soon fit for their military 
duty ; and are free from the Inoculation in a 
much shorter period than in the old mode ; and 
as they sustain no loss of time on account of the 
preparation, they come very soon under arms 
again. This I should consider to be a point of 
great utility to this country at any time, and mor« 
especially at the present period." 

Many other considerations might be urged; but 
these simple fact* and arguments must be suffi- 
' 



28% 

cicet to convince every candid mind of the im- 
portance of the Vaccine Discovery to every indi* 
vidfcal, to every community, and to every nation. 

COSMOPOLITOS, 



ESSAY THE FIFTH. 

The fatal consequences resulting from indiscri- 
minate Small-Pox Inoculation were the subject of 
my last Essay. To inquire into the legality of 
penal restrictions on that practice, and to con- 
sider the expediency of Parliamentary interference, 
is the design of the present Essay. 

Liberty is the proud birth-right of Englishmen. 
In our cradles we are taught to lisp out with 
adoration the name of Freedom. We are led, by 
a species of hereditary impulse, to regard every 
encroachment on our independence with a jealous 
eye, and every restriction we are apt to consider 
as an infringement of our rights. But let us re- 
member that all governments are appointed for 
the purpose of averting evil, of whatever descrip* 
tion it may be, from the people governed; and 
it is the business of Legislators to enact and to 
taforce such laws as may shield the nations ove? 



299 

which they preside from every injury. Such lawi, 
to their fullest extent, are not only warrantable, 
but indispensably necessary. And if it be proper 
to repress moral evil in a nation by salutary 
punishments, is it not equally proper to repress^ 
by similar means, those evils which may be in- 
jurious to the life and health of the community ? 
Upon this principle the penal laws in general are 
founded, and particularly those which relate to 
^quarantine. And if it be requisite to enact re- 
strictions that may prevent the introduction of 
disease from abroad, is it not far more requisite 
to adopt such measures as may restrain and eradi- 
cate a disease which has long preyed upon the 
vitals of our empire, and consigned its myriads to 
the tomb, and which still continues its depreda* 
tions upon our fellow-countrymen ? A law, there* 
fore, which should be calculated to prevent the 
^spreading of this fatal malady, is both demanded 
by reason, justified by policy, and sanctioned by 
precedent. In attempting to arrest the progress 
of the Small-Pox, we must inquire ^hat is the 
principal cause of its extension. We are in- 
formed, by fatal experience, that it is the uncon- 
trolled practice of Inoculation. While the disease 
appeared in its natural form alone, it was dreaded, 
shunned, and repelled, with every possible pre- 
■cautiop.. But when k was rendered familiar to 



300 

us by Inoculation, our cautions were diminished, 
though the danger to which we were exposed 
continued the same ; and the unconcern with 
which the disease was viewed, increased its fatality 
to an incalculable degree. Those who are covered 
with Variolous eruptions are at this day permitted 
to range the public streets ! What means could 
human ingenuity devise, more rapidly and univer- 
sally to disseminate the contagion ? It is against 
so destructive a freedom that penal restrictions 
should be directed. AVe wish not to prohibit the 
practice of Variolous Inoculation, absurd as it is, 
at present. Let those who are desirous of sub- 
mitting to it, gratify their inclinations. But 
though they think proper to welcome the disease to 
their own bosoms, let them not be suffered to 
extend it to others. Let not their liberty be em- 
ployed in such a manner as may endanger the 
welfare of their neighbours, and annoy the in- 
terests of the community at large. 

Since then the legality 7 and necessity of penal 
restrictions on this momentous subject are so 
clearly manifest, it remains to inquire what mea- 
sures it may be expedient for Parliament to 
adopt respecting it. 

Let us first examine precedents. There was a 
time when the Leprosy was prevalent among the 
inhabitants of this country.- This baleful' dis- 



301 

temper commenced its ravages upon our shores in 
the eleventh century. Its extermination was com- 
pleted in the seventeenth century. By what means 
then was its eradication accomplished ? An Act 
was passed, in the reign of the first Edward, 
which enjoins that every reputed leper shall be 
examined, as to the nature of his disease, by pro- 
perly authorized persons ; and that, if he is found 
To be affected with the leprosy, he shall be im- 
mediately removed from society, and taken to 
dwell in some solitary place, lest, by his associa- 
tion with others, he should entail upon them any 
injury or danger. It would be almost superfluous 
to add, that houses of reception for the leprous 
were appointed in appropriate parts of the king- 
dom. Thus, by confining the infected to places 
of seclusion, and prohibiting their mingling with 
the uninfected, the leprosy was subdued, and at 
length annihilated in the civilized world. Let 
similar exertions be made, and similar plans be 
used, to check a disease which is now the scourge 
of our country, and which yields not to the leprosy 
in the loathsomeness of its nature, and is infinitely 
more dreadful in the mortality which it occasions. 
The subject admits not of delay, for not a day 
passes in which the Small-Pox does not hurry 
some unhappy victim to tl\e grave ; and it admits, 
cot of frigid hesitation, or of careless cavils, as 



302 

upon it the welfare of the infant generation so 
niaterially depends , 

The Bill which was introduced into the House 
of Commons during the last session, and which 
will be renewed in this, to prevent the spreading 
of the Small- Pox, is excellently calculated tc pro- 
mote its object. In many particulars, indeed, it 
requires considerable emendations : yet its prin^ 
ciple is incon'trovertibly just. If its enactments are 
enforced with a zeal and earnestness proportionate 
to their importance, the Small-Pox will shortly 
^e known only by name among us. Without re- 
straining the liberty which every individual has an 
undoubted right to exercise upon his own person, 
it merely prevents the exercise of individual free- 
dom from affecting the safety of others. 

Having considered the subject in its particular 
bearings upon the interests of our own country, it 
may not be irrelevant to notice the policy pursued 
by other nations. Though no positive prohibition 
has been given to Variolous Inoculation, yet the 
governments of every nation in Europe, of the 
United States of America, and of our Indian Co- 
lonies, have unanimously discouraged it, both by 
the most persuasive proclamations, and by their 
own example. The -removal of the inoculated 
and infected from society has, on the Continent, 
been enforced by penal laws, In addition to 
5 



303 

this, the Vaccine Inoculation has been earnestly 
recommended by the highest authorities, and ge^ 
nerally practised among the people. And what 
bas been the result ? In the larger portion of the 
European and American continents, and in some 
of our Asiatic settlements, the Small-Pox has 
Jong been exterminated ; and in those parts where 
it yet remains, its spreading is prevented. 

A remarkable instance has lately happened, 
which evinces the stigma attached in other coun- 
tries to the fosterers and allowers of the Small- 
Pox. The child of a counsellor died of the na- 
tural Small-Pox at Brunn, in Hungary. The 
Imperial Police, being informed of the circum- 
stance, commanded that the body should be in^ 
terred in a solitary spot without the town, and 
that the grave should be made considerably deeper 
than usual. The parents were also reprimanded 
for neglecting to have the child secured from the 
Small-Pox by Vaccine Inoculation. An instance 
of mortality occasioned by the Small-Pox is re- 
garded with surprise and indignation in many fo- 
reign nations. In our own country, strange to 
tell, such instances daily occur, and either pass 
unnoticed, or are viewed with a cold indifference, 
which must excite the deepest regret in even; 
feeling heart! 



304 

It will be observed, that in the course of these 
remarks I have kept the Vaccine Inoculation en- 
tirely out of view ; since I was desirous of resting 
my arguments upon those principles alone, the 
justice of which is acknowledged both by the ad- 
vocates and opponents of the Vaccine. The ex- 
tension of the benefits which the new Inoculation 
affords, must depend on the free choice of the 
people ; but the prevention of the mischiefs which 
arise from the improper practice of the old Inocu- 
lation, requires and demands the watchful interfer- 
ence of Government. It may be a question, 
Whether any legislature has a right to force the 
greatest good upon the people ; yet it is in duty 
bound to arrest the progress of every evil by the 
severest laws. And if the universal restriction of 
Variolous Inoculation should happily be accom- 
panied by an universal adoption of the Vaccine, a 
few months would be sufficient to eradicate a 
disease, which, during the last year, has swept off 
one thousand one hundred and sixty-nine persons 
within the Bills of Mortality alone. 

Let these considerations suffice. May the im- 
portance of the subject be duly felt by the British 
Parliament ! May they consider it with the ar- 
dour and attention which it deserves! and may 
the result of their deliberations be honourable to 






305 

themselves^ and serviceable to the nation, whose 
welfare they are appointed to protect ! 

Cosmopolitos, 



ESSAY THE SIXTH. 

MI*. UPwBAN, 

In a series of preceding Essays, I have 
endeavoured to lay before your readers a faithful 
and impartial detail of the merits of Vaccination. 
My object has been, to enable the candid ob- 
server to form a proper estimate of its value ; 
and, in the course of the discussion, no argu- 
ments have been used, but such as have been 
warranted by unbiassed reason ; and no statements 
have been adduced, but such as have rested on 
incontrovertible authority. After having consi- 
dered the various questions connected with the 
Vaccine discovery, with a reference both to theory 
and to practical experience, as far as it has 
already gone, it remains to inquire what effects 
are likely to be produced by the Vaccine practice, 
should its adoption become universal. Should the 
Variolous Inoculation be universally discontinued, 
and should the Vaccine be universally practised, 
what consequences are we to expect ? 
x 



506 

In reply to this interesting inquiry, the most 
brilliant expectations might justly be held forth, 
supported by arguments the most consonant to 
reason. But facts are the most convincing argu-- 
ments. The advantages that have been already 
derived from Vaccination, in those districts where 
it has been generally propagated, constitute the 
best foundation on which we can rest our hopes of 
the advantages it would yield, were its propaga- 
tion general throughout the world. I will not go 
to the continent of Europe for intelligence, satis^ 
factory as are accounts continually received from 
all its nations, of the benefits that accrue to 
them from the Vaccine discovery. Englishmen 
will listen with greater pleasure to information 
which proceeds from their fellow-countrymen, 
and from nations more immediately connected 
with their own. I shall, therefore, confme my 
remarks to the progress and effects of the Vaccine 
Inoculation in the British settlements in India, 
not because its effects are more striking in those 
districts than they are in many other parts of the 
world, but because the details respecting them 
may be compressed into a smaller compass. 

In a letter, dated December 18, 1806, from 
Dr. Kier, of Bombay, to Dr. Jenner (which has 
been printed in -the Appendix to Mr. Murray 's 



307 

; * Answer to Mr. Highmore's Objections to the 
Bill before Parliament to prevent the spreading of 
the Small-Pox," and which Mr. Murray states 
to have been communicated to him by Dr. 
Jenner), the following information is contained: 
" The governments in India have shown every 
anxiety to disseminate the new Inoculation, and 
in all these presidencies there are regular establish- 
ments for the purpose." " On this island the 
Small-Pox was annually epidemic : since the in- 
troduction of the Vaccine, it has done but little 
mischief; and for the last three years has not 
even appeared ; indeed I am sorry for this ; for 
such is the apathy and indolence of the Asiatic 
character, that an evil a little removed is seldom 
attended to or feared. I feel frequently the effects 
of this; for, when urging parents to bring their 
children to my station, they tell me, ' Why fear 
4 Atala ? (Small-Pox.) Your disease has driven 
• it away, and we have nothing to fear. If Small- 
r Pox again appears, we will all come to you at 
t once/ If this reasoning be foolish, it would be 
difficult to produce so strong a testimony of theii 
confidence in the preventive efficacy of the new 
discovery." " The mortality from the visitation 
of the Small-Pox, in any district of this country, 
is much indeed beyond what you can imagine in 
x 2 



308 

Europe. It is certain that, on a favourable com- 
putation, one in three die of Small-Pox in this 
country. Indeed, the mortality at certain seasons, 
and under certain circumstances, is frequently 
more than half; that is, when one hundred are 
seized with this loathsome disease, fifty perish. 
Even the Inoculated Small- Pox proves a serious 
disease here : independently of the common ob- 
jections that are fairly urged against the practice 
of spreading more widely the contagion, our ex- 
perience in this settlement has led us to conclude 
that one child in fifty is lost." 

From this artless narrative we learn the tre- 
mendous devastation which the Variolous conta- 
gion formerly produced in the territories of India, 
and we also learn how completely it has been ex- 
terminated by the most simple and easy means-— 
by the universal practice of the Vaccine Inocula- 
tion. If then the universal practice of Vaccina- 
tion be capable of eradicating the Small-Pox 
from one district of the globe, it naturally follows 
that it is equally capable of eradicating it from 
the globe itself, whenever the practice shall have 
become general among all mankind. 

This animating prospect is not a visionary dream. 
Look at the European continent, look at Ame- 
rica, .look at many parts of Britain ; and you will 



309 

find that wherever Vaccination is disseminated as 
it ought to be, there the Small-Pox has been ba- 
nished, and prevented from returning. Since, 
therefore, the same causes must produce the same 
efTects, to any extent to which they may be al- 
lowed to operate, it is self-evident that nothing 
but unanimous exertions are wanting, to free the 
world from the severest malady that has ever af- 
flicted its inhabitants. I will not at present in- 
dulge in the language of exultation, with which 
so proud a triumph over the most fatal of diseases 
must inspire the lips of every friend of humanity* 
I wish to reason dispassionately ; and I would, 
therefore, coolly inquire what are the causes that 
impede the progress of such inestimable blessings? 
Why is it that a disease, which has been expelled 
from India, should continue to send such hordes of 
wretched victims to the grave in the metropolis of 
the British empire ? And what methods would it 
be expedient to adopt, that this waste of human 
life may be prevented, that prejudice may be 
subdued, that Vaccination may be received in 
the manner its importance demands, and that the 
British realms may derive from it the same ad- 
vantages that other countries have already ex- 
perienced ? With a few unprejudiced remarks on 
these subjects, I will trouble you, Mr. Urban, for 



310 

the next number of your Magazine* : and then, 1 
believe, I shall have accomplished the series of 
Essays which 1 originally proposed, and shall 
have disussed the subject of Vaccination in every 
point of view. If any of your readers, however, 
will have the goodness to mention any point that 
I have left unnoticed, I will thankfully receive 
their suggestions, and readily prolong the discus- 
sion. 

Cosmopolitos. 



* The declining state of Worgan's health, and hi* 
premature death, prevented the completion of thij^ 
design. 




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